I’ve been away from home a week and I’m not sure where to start, so I’ll begin with being mistaken (in hushed tones while being pointed at) as “Her off Eastenders” whilst on the train to Leeds.
My class last year used to call me ‘Janine’ so I’ll take being mistaken for Charlie Brooks….
It's posisble... in a certain light
but privately I’m worried that it was one of the following:-
Until a hilarious friend suggested that it could have even been The Hev!
Please let it not have been Heather
I guess I will never know….
Didn’t take long after arrival in the Boro to be greeted by a convincing persuasive argument for compulsory sterilisation at birth and the issue of hair conditioner on the NHS!
Pramfaced Lonsdale tracky wearing genetic throwbacks, cackling over their Regal Diddies and Effing & Jeffing infront of their kids in the middle of the street. Quality parenting!
A long time ago a friend of mine visited the Boro and decreed my hometown as a place where (& I’m paraphrasing) “people wear knock-off perfumes and aftershaves but are too dumb to know the difference from their Hugo Boss and their Huge Bros“. I took quite against this sweeping statement at the time in defence of the Motherland, but now I think I must concur. With the obvious exception of my esteemed friends who still live in the town (and there are some). Personally I believe them to be on a secret mission by M15 to keep the flag of wisdom, common sense and class aloft and do their utmost to bail out the detritus. May the force be with you my friends and good luck in the quest, you’re doing a grand job!
I actually made an effort and went out on Friday night and after a while didn’t even feel like the oldest swinger in town when the Silver Fox Posse came into the bar we were in. Rotary Club night out perhaps, or Crown Green Bowling Annual ‘do’. We let them have our seats as we were leaving to go to The Merchant. Fortunately the band had almost finished playing when we got there, so we didn’t have to listen to the usual U2 medley or everything seeming to morph into the ‘Irish Rover’ after a few bars. There was an inordinately long version of ‘Hey Jude’ but then it was all over and we could hear ourselves think once more. Wine helped to dull the senses.
At this point I could insert some wildly libellous tale of what one of my friends got up to when we went back to the original bar, because he can’t remember… so all I shall say is this: “You were fantastic and us 3 ladies and the Crown Green Bowling posse were all mightily impressed with your performance – though I doubt we’ll be allowed back in Mist ever again”.
Got home at a reasonable hour without getting cheesy chips or falling over or losing anything or breaking anything or going on a mission anywhere, so therein lies another sign of getting old…. What happened to the old adage of Life Beginning at 40?
Had a float around town again on Saturday afternoon without childerbeast, who were busy looking at Octopuses at the Sealife Centre with Grandma. Didn’t go out Saturday night, but instead stayed home and watched ‘Britain’s Got Talent’ with the MiL and the Childer. Thankfully this week there was the requisite dancing doggy act, so staying home wasn’t a total loss. I think BGT are missing a trick though. What I’m looking for, and I’m sure Her Maj is aswell for her Jubilee Royal Variety… is a cat act.
I’m thinking a cat in a little Ben Hur style chariot, dressed as Boudica (Boudicat?) pulled by parrots in Roman Centurian helmets and armour…. possibly even on a tightrope?
I’d pay to see that. That’s the kind of talent that gets 6,000,000 hits on YouTube my friend.
What we need here Barry is a cat & a couple of Centurian helmets
Can I just say that I wasn’t staying in on a Saturday night in the Boro because the Friday had been so bad or that I didn’t have any other friends to play out with. Oh no. I was on a mission from God and needed my sleepytime…
In a senseless moment of something or other I had agreed to join the MiL at her annual ‘Rising of the Son’ Easter Sunday get up at fuckmeoclock in the morning and go down the beach and watch the sunrise whilst listening to the Easter Story, annual shizzle! “Halleluah! Praise the Lord. Holy Shit. Where’s the Tylenol!”
0440hrs I got out of bed on Sunday morning! The childerbeast were all up for it until the hour came and then the tears started. I was already washed & dressed by then so they were doing this shit whether they liked it or not – besides there was promise of a fried breakfast at the end of it.
I have to say that the last time I was on the beach to watch the sunrise I hadn’t had to get up and go and see it. I was on my way home from a club. Quite why I was on the seafront, nowhere near the club or the place I was staying is another matter. Fuctifino! I do know that amphetemines were part of the equation and that as I sat on the sand smoking a fag and watching the sun rise over the horizon, that the Old Bill pulled up to see what I was up to, so I hastily buried the remains of my substantial bag of billy in the sand.
I apologise profusely to the parents of whichever child found the bag (because I couldn’t find it again once the Dibble had left!) Or possibly a Kittiwake or Herring Gull somewhere found it and was last seen circling the castle and Marine Drive at the speed of sound!
But that was back in 1993. 2012 was a little more sedate. Hymns were sung (but not by me) and in lieu of tambourines to shake, we were given chocolate, smartie filled rabbits from Aldi. I shit you not!
Praise Jesus. Shake your bunny
I showed my appreciation for the almighty, thus…
Sunrise was poor to be honest. Drizzle and cloud spoiled it.
The sound of the waves drowned out most of the sermon... pity...
Cracking veggie fry up afterwards at the former amusingly named Cafe Del Mar (cos Ibiza it aint!) Now renamed The Watermark Cafe and an opportunity to take an iconic photo of a sign which never fails to put a smile on my lips, for reasons also dating back to the early 1990’s
Got home at 0700 in time for childerbeast to do an egg hunt and catch a major haul.
Ripped to the tits on Creme Eggs they decided that rather than get into bed with me and sleep, they would get into bed with me and watch ‘Mama Mia’ on DVD. Jesus friggin H Christ indeed!!
It’s a little known fact (the church edited this part out of the bible for legal reasons) that at Golgotha, JC was given the option of either Crucifixion OR having to watch ‘Mama Mia’…. we know what his ultimate choice was in the end, and I have to say that I’d have been right there with him, feverishly hammering nails through my own wrists into the bloody cross and willing myself to die and for the misery to end. FFS!
Next stop Chester and I’ll get to that, tomorrow. Right now I’m sick of typing and my own bed is calling me…