This morning I was standing at the kitchen window again, waiting for my kettle to boil again and keeping my eye out for mad cat...again. When I noticed an addition to the feline menagerie plaguing the estate. Reader, I give thee fat cat. I have never seen fat cat before. But goodness me, is it fat. Like all the other cats (apart from mad cat), fat cat is black and white. But he has a fair bit of white on his coat, unlike blind cat, three-legged cat and broken-legged cat. Mad cat looks like he's mixed with leopard or tiger or something. His coat's a bit stripy and mixed up. I sometimes wonder if that's what contributing to his madness.
Anyway, I clocked fat cat while he was waddling past the same spot that mad cat always hangs out. It's almost as if he was marking the path as his own. He even heaved himself up on to the massive boulder John used to put tuna for mad cat on. I have no idea where the hell fat cat wobbled in from, but I think he's too fat to be a stray. I mean, a fat stray animal is as much an oxymoron as a fat vagrant. Hmmm.
So now we have fat cat thrown into the mix. Steups. What's next? Well-read cat? Handsome cat? Foolish cat? Sigh. I just hate them all. Haven't seen mad cat since Friday afternoon though. In my head, he's in some evil lair throwing darts at a picture of me and making notes about my daily routine.
Sunday, 31 October 2010
Friday, 29 October 2010
Friday is my Flyday
I've just been standing at my kitchen window, waiting on my kettle to boil and just basically staring into space, when I spotted this cat staring at me from under my neighbour's car. I hate cats. Cats are evil. You never know what a cat is thinking. I mean, dogs are fairly open with their emotions. If a dog hates you, it will growl and snarl and snap at you. If it likes you, it'll wag its tail and bark joyfully and jump up on you. If it's horny, it'll hump your leg. So dogs don't really hide their feelings very well. But cats are a different issue. A cat will look at you, and you'll have no idea whether it's thinking "Oooh, that man is fit! I hope he bends down and strokes me." Or "God I hate you. I'm going to wait until you're asleep then scratch the fuck out of your face."
There are rather a lot of cats on our estate, and a disproportionate number of them are disabled. There's the three-legged cat who likes to shit in my flowerbed, the cat with the broken leg who actually really resembles the three-legged cat, the blind cat and the mad cat. Queens Park Gardens appears to be some sort of cat convalescent home.
The cat that was staring, or rather he was glaring, at me was mad cat. Mad cat has been so named, because it went mad and just started howling and hissing at this fence one day. It also keeps on digging up the bit of grass near to the walkway that leads to our building. Digging for what? I had no idea that cats were diggers. Anyway, my neighbour has taken to feeding mad cat and I had to have words with him about it. Cats like to hang around close to their food supply and mad cat freaks me out so I really don't want it outside my building.
The odd thing is, I think mad cat understood what I was saying, because the same day I told John to stop putting tuna out for it, I went to get into my car and mad cat actually stood on the path and hissed at me, as if to say "Listen bitch, I've got a good thing going here. Don't you dare fuck it up for me or I'll fucking 'ave you!" Yes, in my mind mad cat sounds like an East End gangster. And now John has stopped leaving tuna out for it, I think it hates me, hence the glare from under John's car.
So that got me thinking about animals and how aware are they of what's going on around them. I mean, is mad cat really aware that it's my fault that he doesn't get tuna anymore? Is mad cat plotting my demise? When I shout at three-legged cat to get out of my flowerbed, and he just stares at me, is he thinking "Look lady, I'm not done yet, so take it easy" ? Is blind cat going "I wish I could claim benefits, like half the losers in this town. I mean, I've got one bloody eye!" Who knows? All I know is that mad cat seems to be literally stalking this building, pacing up and down, digging up the path and checking the flat stone John used to leave the tuna on, while throwing me dirty looks. I daren't tell Mr Bunny about this though. He thinks I'm weird enough as it is.
I wish I could kick mad cat. He has grey whiskers.
There are rather a lot of cats on our estate, and a disproportionate number of them are disabled. There's the three-legged cat who likes to shit in my flowerbed, the cat with the broken leg who actually really resembles the three-legged cat, the blind cat and the mad cat. Queens Park Gardens appears to be some sort of cat convalescent home.
The cat that was staring, or rather he was glaring, at me was mad cat. Mad cat has been so named, because it went mad and just started howling and hissing at this fence one day. It also keeps on digging up the bit of grass near to the walkway that leads to our building. Digging for what? I had no idea that cats were diggers. Anyway, my neighbour has taken to feeding mad cat and I had to have words with him about it. Cats like to hang around close to their food supply and mad cat freaks me out so I really don't want it outside my building.
The odd thing is, I think mad cat understood what I was saying, because the same day I told John to stop putting tuna out for it, I went to get into my car and mad cat actually stood on the path and hissed at me, as if to say "Listen bitch, I've got a good thing going here. Don't you dare fuck it up for me or I'll fucking 'ave you!" Yes, in my mind mad cat sounds like an East End gangster. And now John has stopped leaving tuna out for it, I think it hates me, hence the glare from under John's car.
So that got me thinking about animals and how aware are they of what's going on around them. I mean, is mad cat really aware that it's my fault that he doesn't get tuna anymore? Is mad cat plotting my demise? When I shout at three-legged cat to get out of my flowerbed, and he just stares at me, is he thinking "Look lady, I'm not done yet, so take it easy" ? Is blind cat going "I wish I could claim benefits, like half the losers in this town. I mean, I've got one bloody eye!" Who knows? All I know is that mad cat seems to be literally stalking this building, pacing up and down, digging up the path and checking the flat stone John used to leave the tuna on, while throwing me dirty looks. I daren't tell Mr Bunny about this though. He thinks I'm weird enough as it is.
I wish I could kick mad cat. He has grey whiskers.
Thursday, 9 September 2010
Living the dream?
I had to go do my Life in the UK Test today. I was not happy about having to do that for a number of reasons. First off, my husband is back working in England, so he is driving my car, since our other car is just a weekend car and isn't for a daily commute. This meant I had to get the train. This then meant that I had to walk to the train station, since the bus that goes to the station from outside our flat, wouldn't come in time for me to catch my train. So I had to make the forty minute walk.
Secondly, I had to pay to do this bloody test. It costs £34 and it's non-refundable if you fail or have to cancel for any reason. This means that if you were to drop down dead and therefore missed your appointment, in addition to having to fork out for your funeral, your family will have to make sure the UK Border Agency got their £34.
But the main reason why it pissed me off, is the sheer stupidity and banality of the bloody questions. I've been here for eleven years. I've done two degrees here and I'm from a former colony. I know more about life in the UK than a lot of people who were born here! Not only that though, the questions are just absolutely pointless. How is me knowing the distance from John O' Groats to Land's End going to make me a better citizen? Why should I have to pay to take a test with questions like "If you are renting a property from a private landlord, you will normally be required to pay a deposit which is equivalent to one month's rent. TRUE or FALSE" Quantum mechanics this is not.
So I get there, and there's a few other people there, looking around nervously. They were all sat down, furiously revising before the test started (you need to read the Life in the UK Test book, £20 from The Stationery Store. I downloaded it off t'internet) and taking deep breaths. I was BBMing a friend and checking my email. The American guy sat next to me was busy scrolling through his iPhone. He looked just as annoyed as I felt.
So I walked for forty minutes, spent seven quid on a train ticket, rode the train for ten minutes, walked to the test centre, signed in, and took a total of six minutes to complete a test they give you forty-five minutes to do. That works out at just five pound something per minute. Not exactly value for money. The good thing is, you get your results straight away. You click 'Finish' and it automatically sends your results to a printer. A nice lady then calls you over, tries to make a bit of banter, stamps the printout and signs it. And that's it.
I passed. I will take this to mean that I now know all there is to know about Life in the UK. I mean, I just paid £34 for the pleasure.
Secondly, I had to pay to do this bloody test. It costs £34 and it's non-refundable if you fail or have to cancel for any reason. This means that if you were to drop down dead and therefore missed your appointment, in addition to having to fork out for your funeral, your family will have to make sure the UK Border Agency got their £34.
But the main reason why it pissed me off, is the sheer stupidity and banality of the bloody questions. I've been here for eleven years. I've done two degrees here and I'm from a former colony. I know more about life in the UK than a lot of people who were born here! Not only that though, the questions are just absolutely pointless. How is me knowing the distance from John O' Groats to Land's End going to make me a better citizen? Why should I have to pay to take a test with questions like "If you are renting a property from a private landlord, you will normally be required to pay a deposit which is equivalent to one month's rent. TRUE or FALSE" Quantum mechanics this is not.
So I get there, and there's a few other people there, looking around nervously. They were all sat down, furiously revising before the test started (you need to read the Life in the UK Test book, £20 from The Stationery Store. I downloaded it off t'internet) and taking deep breaths. I was BBMing a friend and checking my email. The American guy sat next to me was busy scrolling through his iPhone. He looked just as annoyed as I felt.
So I walked for forty minutes, spent seven quid on a train ticket, rode the train for ten minutes, walked to the test centre, signed in, and took a total of six minutes to complete a test they give you forty-five minutes to do. That works out at just five pound something per minute. Not exactly value for money. The good thing is, you get your results straight away. You click 'Finish' and it automatically sends your results to a printer. A nice lady then calls you over, tries to make a bit of banter, stamps the printout and signs it. And that's it.
I passed. I will take this to mean that I now know all there is to know about Life in the UK. I mean, I just paid £34 for the pleasure.
Tuesday, 10 August 2010
You can never go back again
This morning I decided I was going to clear out my hotmail inbox. I have close to forty pages of emails, and I thought that half of them were probably shitty forwards so a clean up was in order. And I was actually shocked at what I found. Emails I hadn't read in years, from as far back as 2002. Emails I'd forgotten I'd sent and received, situations I'd long consigned to the history books; memories both happy and sad.
One of the first emails I read, was one from my friend Des. Des was one of the Irish, who lived in my halls in Annecy. I spent nearly six months in Annecy, France, working in a business college. I lived in halls of residence, which appeared to be the dumping ground for foreign students and society's rejects. I was there for about two weeks, before I realised there were other English-speakers living there. And it made me so happy! I remember I'd just come in from work, and was having a word with Vince, one of the residents who also worked in the admin office, when I heard a girl shouting something in English, up the stairwell. So I said "Oh my God! Are you English?" and she said "No, I'm Irish. Are you English?" And that was how it began. Her name was Sarah, and she was one of four Irish people there. And through them, I met Reynaldo who was from Uruguay, Henry who was actually English and the eight other Irish and the Yank who lived in Pre St Jean, the other halls of res up the road.
But out of all the Irish, Des and I hit it off the best. We just clicked. We became quite tight and hung out together all the time. We'd go into town and knockabout, sit in the residence computer room and talk a load of shit, or go down to the the lake and lay around on paquier all day, eating Quick and drinking. One day we just got on the bus and just rode different routes just so we could see where they led to. And then there were the parties in the basement. Des was easily the best dancer out of all the Irish, so we always had a blast. I even dragged him to the cinema a couple times. And when I got my bonus at work, just before I left, he was the one I celebrated with. But the best part of it all? There was never anything sexual or romantic about it. He was like my twin or something. We made each other laugh and told each other nearly everything. I think it remains my best male friendship...ever.
So I ended up reading some of those emails and I'd completely forgotten the sort of things we spoke about. He was the one who comforted me after the whole Cute French Guy debacle, who listened to my whingeing about work and the bitch students at the college who hated me because I was their age and had my own office instead of classes. He was the one who realised that I had a thing for Henry...even before I did! And when Brian and I hooked up, he scoped him out for me and didn't give him the seal of approval. Ha ha ha!
After reading the emails, I went and dug out my album and flipped through it. I named it "Adventures in Foreign Lands" and it's got pictures from my time in Spain, France and odd nights out in Preston. And there's a 'page of Des' with just pictures of me and Des hanging out. It brought back so many memories- me and Des eating a Munich burger (which remains the best burger I've ever had in my life!) in le Munich down by the river, me and Des at the bus stop, waiting for our connecting bus to come home one night, me and Des hugging up at one of our basement parties (we were both sweaty as fook, glistening in the night. Twas ace!) And then there's that classic memory I have of me being in a cage in a club, sandwiched between Des and Paul, dancing to Starlight by Supermen Lovers.
One decision basically led to me having a fabulous walk down memory lane. It's like looking back on a completely different life, which is actually pretty cool. It's good to have these memories stashed away, so I can remind myself that I wasn't always this dull, going to bed at eight-thirty and spending my days knitting. These memories remind me that I once flew to Paris for a weekend of dirty sex and ended up fracturing my foot shagging in a shower. They remind me that I got a tattoo one afternoon after work in Annecy, just because I fancied it. They remind me that one weekend I hopped the Swiss/French border with the guy I was doing a bit of the ol' horizontal jogging with, and went to the Geneva motor show on a whim. They remind me of a much simpler time, when all I had to do was worry about keeping my office door shut while I played my D'Angelo and worked on the college prospectus.
So, while they say you can never go back again, it's very nice to pay a visit once in a while.
HAPPY 50TH POST TO ME!!!
One of the first emails I read, was one from my friend Des. Des was one of the Irish, who lived in my halls in Annecy. I spent nearly six months in Annecy, France, working in a business college. I lived in halls of residence, which appeared to be the dumping ground for foreign students and society's rejects. I was there for about two weeks, before I realised there were other English-speakers living there. And it made me so happy! I remember I'd just come in from work, and was having a word with Vince, one of the residents who also worked in the admin office, when I heard a girl shouting something in English, up the stairwell. So I said "Oh my God! Are you English?" and she said "No, I'm Irish. Are you English?" And that was how it began. Her name was Sarah, and she was one of four Irish people there. And through them, I met Reynaldo who was from Uruguay, Henry who was actually English and the eight other Irish and the Yank who lived in Pre St Jean, the other halls of res up the road.
But out of all the Irish, Des and I hit it off the best. We just clicked. We became quite tight and hung out together all the time. We'd go into town and knockabout, sit in the residence computer room and talk a load of shit, or go down to the the lake and lay around on paquier all day, eating Quick and drinking. One day we just got on the bus and just rode different routes just so we could see where they led to. And then there were the parties in the basement. Des was easily the best dancer out of all the Irish, so we always had a blast. I even dragged him to the cinema a couple times. And when I got my bonus at work, just before I left, he was the one I celebrated with. But the best part of it all? There was never anything sexual or romantic about it. He was like my twin or something. We made each other laugh and told each other nearly everything. I think it remains my best male friendship...ever.
So I ended up reading some of those emails and I'd completely forgotten the sort of things we spoke about. He was the one who comforted me after the whole Cute French Guy debacle, who listened to my whingeing about work and the bitch students at the college who hated me because I was their age and had my own office instead of classes. He was the one who realised that I had a thing for Henry...even before I did! And when Brian and I hooked up, he scoped him out for me and didn't give him the seal of approval. Ha ha ha!
After reading the emails, I went and dug out my album and flipped through it. I named it "Adventures in Foreign Lands" and it's got pictures from my time in Spain, France and odd nights out in Preston. And there's a 'page of Des' with just pictures of me and Des hanging out. It brought back so many memories- me and Des eating a Munich burger (which remains the best burger I've ever had in my life!) in le Munich down by the river, me and Des at the bus stop, waiting for our connecting bus to come home one night, me and Des hugging up at one of our basement parties (we were both sweaty as fook, glistening in the night. Twas ace!) And then there's that classic memory I have of me being in a cage in a club, sandwiched between Des and Paul, dancing to Starlight by Supermen Lovers.
One decision basically led to me having a fabulous walk down memory lane. It's like looking back on a completely different life, which is actually pretty cool. It's good to have these memories stashed away, so I can remind myself that I wasn't always this dull, going to bed at eight-thirty and spending my days knitting. These memories remind me that I once flew to Paris for a weekend of dirty sex and ended up fracturing my foot shagging in a shower. They remind me that I got a tattoo one afternoon after work in Annecy, just because I fancied it. They remind me that one weekend I hopped the Swiss/French border with the guy I was doing a bit of the ol' horizontal jogging with, and went to the Geneva motor show on a whim. They remind me of a much simpler time, when all I had to do was worry about keeping my office door shut while I played my D'Angelo and worked on the college prospectus.
So, while they say you can never go back again, it's very nice to pay a visit once in a while.
HAPPY 50TH POST TO ME!!!
Monday, 12 July 2010
Anniversaire, cumpleanos, old-age
Happy Birthday to me.
Today's the big day, and I'm not sure how I'm feeling. Well, actually I am pretty sure. I feel old and a little bit worthless. I'm thirty years old today. Thirty. Three, zero. Just seeing it here in black and white is slightly distressing. I am thirty years old, and I don't really have anything to show for it. What have I achieved in my thirty years on this planet? Fuck all. Sweet fuck all.
Sigh!
Y'know, as children, we all have these visions as to what our lives would be like when we hit this age. I mean, when I was nine, thirty seemed SOOOO far away. Hell, when I was seven, twelve seemed like it would never come. But I thought I'd be at a different place by now and the painful realisation is that I am indeed in a different place. Just not the place I'd envisioned.
It all hit me a few months ago, that the sum total of my achievments is being married. I don't work, I don't have kids, I don't even own my own car. What have I got to show for my time on this earth? Some really expensive handbags, ninety-seven pairs of shoes and cool hair. Hmmmm. I did own a car once. Little green car. It was an M-reg Ford Fiesta, and it cost me £700. I loved that car. It was mine. Yeah, Mr Bunny hated it, but I didn't care. Little green car was ace. I had to sell it though, when I decided to head back to Trinidad for an extended period. And oh, it was so hard to let it go. Now I drive a nice, silver Ford Focus. It's all reliable and safe and economical, and we have a black Alfa Romeo Spider for sunny weekends. But the less said about that car at the moment, the better.
What's my point, I hear you roll your eyes? My point is, those things don't belong to me. My husband paid for them. He pays for everything. He bought both cars, he owns this flat. And the really depressing thing, is that I have allowed this to happen. I've made poor decisions and that is what angers and upsets and saddens me more than anything else. I've done this to myself.
So what am I going to do about it? Well, I've decided to go back to work. Going back to do anything (except clean loos). But I need to regain some self-respect. So maybe this mini-mid-life crisis happened for a reason. Silver lining and all that, I guess. I'm extremely grateful that I'm able to have the lifestyle that I do since I know there are those much less fortunate than we are. But trust, it isn't all it's cracked up to be. It's lonely and a trifle boring. So I'm going to look for some part-time work to tide me over, until the baby Bunnies come. And when I made that decision, I felt a bit better. It's all about taking action baby!
Shall I break out the cake and ice cream?
Today's the big day, and I'm not sure how I'm feeling. Well, actually I am pretty sure. I feel old and a little bit worthless. I'm thirty years old today. Thirty. Three, zero. Just seeing it here in black and white is slightly distressing. I am thirty years old, and I don't really have anything to show for it. What have I achieved in my thirty years on this planet? Fuck all. Sweet fuck all.
Sigh!
Y'know, as children, we all have these visions as to what our lives would be like when we hit this age. I mean, when I was nine, thirty seemed SOOOO far away. Hell, when I was seven, twelve seemed like it would never come. But I thought I'd be at a different place by now and the painful realisation is that I am indeed in a different place. Just not the place I'd envisioned.
It all hit me a few months ago, that the sum total of my achievments is being married. I don't work, I don't have kids, I don't even own my own car. What have I got to show for my time on this earth? Some really expensive handbags, ninety-seven pairs of shoes and cool hair. Hmmmm. I did own a car once. Little green car. It was an M-reg Ford Fiesta, and it cost me £700. I loved that car. It was mine. Yeah, Mr Bunny hated it, but I didn't care. Little green car was ace. I had to sell it though, when I decided to head back to Trinidad for an extended period. And oh, it was so hard to let it go. Now I drive a nice, silver Ford Focus. It's all reliable and safe and economical, and we have a black Alfa Romeo Spider for sunny weekends. But the less said about that car at the moment, the better.
What's my point, I hear you roll your eyes? My point is, those things don't belong to me. My husband paid for them. He pays for everything. He bought both cars, he owns this flat. And the really depressing thing, is that I have allowed this to happen. I've made poor decisions and that is what angers and upsets and saddens me more than anything else. I've done this to myself.
So what am I going to do about it? Well, I've decided to go back to work. Going back to do anything (except clean loos). But I need to regain some self-respect. So maybe this mini-mid-life crisis happened for a reason. Silver lining and all that, I guess. I'm extremely grateful that I'm able to have the lifestyle that I do since I know there are those much less fortunate than we are. But trust, it isn't all it's cracked up to be. It's lonely and a trifle boring. So I'm going to look for some part-time work to tide me over, until the baby Bunnies come. And when I made that decision, I felt a bit better. It's all about taking action baby!
Shall I break out the cake and ice cream?
Tuesday, 29 June 2010
Football's coming home
I'm not crazy about football. I think I've mentioned this previously. So the World Cup and other assorted tournaments, are torture for me. Yes, I go see my friends play in their League matches, but that's different. Even when Trinidad qualified, I couldn't bring myself to watch their games, I was so nervous. But I did proudly sport my Soca Warrior t-shirt.
However, living in England, it's hard to escape football. The English have this sense of superiority when it comes to football. I mean, yes they invented the game, and yes they won the World Cup. But that was once...44 bloody years ago. And they still won't stop going on about it. They haven't won a major tournament since, or even reached the final round! Yet, to hear them talk, the only reason they haven't won is because the rest of the world is against them. It's the refs, the linesmen, the press, the fans. The ball is too light, the pitch is too poor, the altitude is too high. Our shorts were too short, the shorts were too long, the t-shirts were too tight. Blah, blah, blah! The truth is, the team just isn't good enough. They aren't good enough to beat Argentina (the fucking Hand of God gets trotted out EVERY World Cup campaign, as if THAT was the reason why they didn't win in 1986. Steups!), they aren't good enough to beat France, they aren't good enough to beat Spain. I mean, FFS, they could only muster a 2-0 win over Trinidad...and that was after a goalless first half! What the hell makes them think they can overpower Brazil, Germany or Argentina?
Anyway, they stumbled through the group stages, much to their embarassment. It was funny to watch, because I remember they were so cocky after the draw. The husband and I were in Ireland and The Sun had on it's front page the day after the draw-
England
Algeria
Slovenia
Yanks
They thought they'd piss the group stages, storm through the knockouts and quarter-finals and arrive at the semis, where the real work would begin. But sadly (or happily if you're not an England fan), twas not to be. They could only muster a 1-1 draw with said Yanks, a 0-0 draw with Algeria and a 1-0 win over Slovenia. Yes, quite the footballing powerhouse. So they limped through to the knockout stages, not even as winners of their group. Yes, the Yanks who they derided so early on, managed to beat them. So, it was on to Germany; their footballing nemesis.
I read my Saturday paper yesterday. I like to leave it a couple days, for when the boredom truly kicks in. It made for hilarious reading though. The Sport section had the headline "We are a better team than Germany and we will beat them". This little prediction came from the goalkeeper, David James, who is actually one of the better-looking men on the team. Oh, how we laughed. Why?
Well, on Sunday, they were thrashed 4-1 by said German side. Despite all the jingoism in the press, harking back to fecking WW2 (two twats even turned up at the game dressed as RAF officers) and England's last victory on a world stage (bloody 1966), England lost and they lost badly. So they were out, and out in a most humiliating fashion. But I'm a bit sad that they're out. I can almost see your double take, dear reader. Why the hell am I sad, that a bunch of cocky, overpaid and overrated footballers have lost?
Well, it means that life has gone back to normal here in Merrie Olde England. On Sunday, I went to the Trafford Centre to exchange our kettle. I live life on the edge. But I thought Sunday would be an ideal time, since the rest of the country would be glued to their tellies. My need to go out was further encouraged by the sight of my neighbours erecting a gazebo in their front garden, and hanging a large England flag out of a window on the top floor of their house. Apparently, the eight flags on his car weren't enough. When I saw him dragging the bbq out of his shed, I mentally planned what I was going to wear and hit the showers.
Oh, and what a magical afternoon it turned out to be. The roads were clear, I had my pick of parking spots right outside the entrance and there were no queues in the shops. The only downside, was that all the staff in John Lewis were glued to the tv screens. I was able to wander around without being touched by some sweaty man in an ugly shirt and trackie bottoms. It took me two minutes to get a green tea in Starbucks, and there were loads of seats if I'd wanted to stay. I didn't have to push my way through any crowds in Marks and Spencer's to get a decent look at the food.
In short, it was bliss.
But because of the general shittiness of the England team, I shall never have another afternoon like that again. Well, at least not for another four years...provided England even bloody qualify for Brazil!
So I shall remember Sunday 27th of June with great fondness and nostalgia. You shall always be in my heart. Football's coming home, a trifle too early and not in the way they meant when they sang that song (which is so catchy, I'm humming it as I type).
Bless the little losers.
However, living in England, it's hard to escape football. The English have this sense of superiority when it comes to football. I mean, yes they invented the game, and yes they won the World Cup. But that was once...44 bloody years ago. And they still won't stop going on about it. They haven't won a major tournament since, or even reached the final round! Yet, to hear them talk, the only reason they haven't won is because the rest of the world is against them. It's the refs, the linesmen, the press, the fans. The ball is too light, the pitch is too poor, the altitude is too high. Our shorts were too short, the shorts were too long, the t-shirts were too tight. Blah, blah, blah! The truth is, the team just isn't good enough. They aren't good enough to beat Argentina (the fucking Hand of God gets trotted out EVERY World Cup campaign, as if THAT was the reason why they didn't win in 1986. Steups!), they aren't good enough to beat France, they aren't good enough to beat Spain. I mean, FFS, they could only muster a 2-0 win over Trinidad...and that was after a goalless first half! What the hell makes them think they can overpower Brazil, Germany or Argentina?
Anyway, they stumbled through the group stages, much to their embarassment. It was funny to watch, because I remember they were so cocky after the draw. The husband and I were in Ireland and The Sun had on it's front page the day after the draw-
England
Algeria
Slovenia
Yanks
They thought they'd piss the group stages, storm through the knockouts and quarter-finals and arrive at the semis, where the real work would begin. But sadly (or happily if you're not an England fan), twas not to be. They could only muster a 1-1 draw with said Yanks, a 0-0 draw with Algeria and a 1-0 win over Slovenia. Yes, quite the footballing powerhouse. So they limped through to the knockout stages, not even as winners of their group. Yes, the Yanks who they derided so early on, managed to beat them. So, it was on to Germany; their footballing nemesis.
I read my Saturday paper yesterday. I like to leave it a couple days, for when the boredom truly kicks in. It made for hilarious reading though. The Sport section had the headline "We are a better team than Germany and we will beat them". This little prediction came from the goalkeeper, David James, who is actually one of the better-looking men on the team. Oh, how we laughed. Why?
Well, on Sunday, they were thrashed 4-1 by said German side. Despite all the jingoism in the press, harking back to fecking WW2 (two twats even turned up at the game dressed as RAF officers) and England's last victory on a world stage (bloody 1966), England lost and they lost badly. So they were out, and out in a most humiliating fashion. But I'm a bit sad that they're out. I can almost see your double take, dear reader. Why the hell am I sad, that a bunch of cocky, overpaid and overrated footballers have lost?
Well, it means that life has gone back to normal here in Merrie Olde England. On Sunday, I went to the Trafford Centre to exchange our kettle. I live life on the edge. But I thought Sunday would be an ideal time, since the rest of the country would be glued to their tellies. My need to go out was further encouraged by the sight of my neighbours erecting a gazebo in their front garden, and hanging a large England flag out of a window on the top floor of their house. Apparently, the eight flags on his car weren't enough. When I saw him dragging the bbq out of his shed, I mentally planned what I was going to wear and hit the showers.
Oh, and what a magical afternoon it turned out to be. The roads were clear, I had my pick of parking spots right outside the entrance and there were no queues in the shops. The only downside, was that all the staff in John Lewis were glued to the tv screens. I was able to wander around without being touched by some sweaty man in an ugly shirt and trackie bottoms. It took me two minutes to get a green tea in Starbucks, and there were loads of seats if I'd wanted to stay. I didn't have to push my way through any crowds in Marks and Spencer's to get a decent look at the food.
In short, it was bliss.
But because of the general shittiness of the England team, I shall never have another afternoon like that again. Well, at least not for another four years...provided England even bloody qualify for Brazil!
So I shall remember Sunday 27th of June with great fondness and nostalgia. You shall always be in my heart. Football's coming home, a trifle too early and not in the way they meant when they sang that song (which is so catchy, I'm humming it as I type).
Bless the little losers.
Tuesday, 22 June 2010
...and I would've gotten away with it too, if it wasn't for those pesky kids!
I'm old.
I'm not even thirty yet, but I'm old. How have I come to this conclusion? Well, Friday night, "Ferris Beuller's Day Off" was on. I remember when I first saw that movie and how much I loved it. I loved it so much, I even watched the mega-lame series (that actually starred a pre-friends Jennifer Aniston). I mean, this guy managed to trick all the adults in his life, and his annoying sister always lost out. But she ended up hooking up with Charlie Sheen, when he was still hot and before he, um, lost his way.
So I left it on Film4 and decided to watch it. I shouldn't have done that.
I HATED it this time around. I hated it so much, I switched over about half-an hour into it, to watch an episode of "Mock the Week" I must have seen about fifty bajillion times (thanks Dave). But why did I hate it so much? Well, in the ten years or so since I last properly watched the movie, Ferris turned into a bit of a little shit! Why do his parents believe him, and not Jeannie? Jeannie is a bit mean, yes. But she seems to be fairly honest with the people around her. Why is Ferris so mean to Cameron? He's a bit of a bully and a narcissist. The Dean of Students is a bit of a penis, I'll admit. But he's just trying to do his job, which is ten times harder, because of twats like Ferris, who think it's their right to skip school and steal classic cars. And what irked me more than anything, was that he never got his comeuppance. He just got away with it! Life isn't like that.
So that got me thinking, have I skipped my thirties, forties, fifties, sixties and seventies and jumped straight to my eighties and my curmodgeonly years? Why am I so crotchety? I mean, Ferris is just a fictional character. Then it hit me. I'm no longer that movie's target audience. I've outgrown it, as I've outgrown a lot of other things. But even more worrying, was the realisation that I'm turning into my mother! This is the kind of show my mother would roll her eyes and steups at, refusing to believe the antics on screen. And now I find myself doing the same.
Sigh! Who knew growing up would mean you lose part of your sense of humour? Luckily for me, I still find fart and poo jokes funny, so I won't lose all hope just yet!
I'm not even thirty yet, but I'm old. How have I come to this conclusion? Well, Friday night, "Ferris Beuller's Day Off" was on. I remember when I first saw that movie and how much I loved it. I loved it so much, I even watched the mega-lame series (that actually starred a pre-friends Jennifer Aniston). I mean, this guy managed to trick all the adults in his life, and his annoying sister always lost out. But she ended up hooking up with Charlie Sheen, when he was still hot and before he, um, lost his way.
So I left it on Film4 and decided to watch it. I shouldn't have done that.
I HATED it this time around. I hated it so much, I switched over about half-an hour into it, to watch an episode of "Mock the Week" I must have seen about fifty bajillion times (thanks Dave). But why did I hate it so much? Well, in the ten years or so since I last properly watched the movie, Ferris turned into a bit of a little shit! Why do his parents believe him, and not Jeannie? Jeannie is a bit mean, yes. But she seems to be fairly honest with the people around her. Why is Ferris so mean to Cameron? He's a bit of a bully and a narcissist. The Dean of Students is a bit of a penis, I'll admit. But he's just trying to do his job, which is ten times harder, because of twats like Ferris, who think it's their right to skip school and steal classic cars. And what irked me more than anything, was that he never got his comeuppance. He just got away with it! Life isn't like that.
So that got me thinking, have I skipped my thirties, forties, fifties, sixties and seventies and jumped straight to my eighties and my curmodgeonly years? Why am I so crotchety? I mean, Ferris is just a fictional character. Then it hit me. I'm no longer that movie's target audience. I've outgrown it, as I've outgrown a lot of other things. But even more worrying, was the realisation that I'm turning into my mother! This is the kind of show my mother would roll her eyes and steups at, refusing to believe the antics on screen. And now I find myself doing the same.
Sigh! Who knew growing up would mean you lose part of your sense of humour? Luckily for me, I still find fart and poo jokes funny, so I won't lose all hope just yet!
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