Monday, June 26, 2006

“We knew he had a problem- and tried to help him…I blame myself”

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Well at long last, Lisa and I have finally got with them’s times and got ourselves hooked up to this thar’ internet. Not only that but we have also opted to get cable and (gulp) a telephone line. All this extra technology and stimulus hasn’t of course come without its draw backs, but aside from a few hours of my life wasted flicking through a possible 250 channels to see how many we can received-sadly it transpires that we don’t get that many- it’s cool. On a plus note, we may not get MTV, Sky Movies or any Sports Channels except the pointless Sky Sports News, we do get ‘Teachers TV’. Should you not have heard of this, then you’ll be surprised to know that it isn’t in fact a channel devoted to the Channel 4 comedy/drama ‘Teachers’, rather a guide for crap teachers who can’t devise a lesson plan or take control of their kids…(insert your own obvious witty retort here) Anyway, despite the excitement proceeding the installation it hasn’t really affected our lives in any way shape or form.. In fact, we’ve had the telephone line now since last Wednesday, and as of yet we haven’t actually received an incoming call. Perhaps it may be frugal of us to inform the assorted rag tag bunch of losers and misfits we call our friends and family what the number is- but the thought of receiving a call without knowing as to whom is calling seems too terrifying to contemplate at present.

The weekend last, was another good one. To surmise: on Saturday I watched me a lot of football and did some other stuff which at this moment escapes me. During the night we were in attendance for Janet’s birthday and headed out of the safe surrounding of Lark Lane and ventured forth to The Tavern on Allerton Road for some muchos nice-ious mexciana food-e-o, and quelle surprise I ate way too much, developed menu dyslexia (ordering a made up beer) and finally hauled myself home where I lay on the bed like a sad beached whale, and eventually after trying to remedy this situation by having a large poo, I decided being sick was my only option and thusly did so. Not a proud moment. We all have our vices; mine appears to be Chicken Enchiladas to the point of excess. As I held on to my glasses and tried to quietly puke so as not to let Lisa know of my condition, I drifted off into another Walter Mitty type death scenario, imagining the look of horror as my boss takes a call from Lisa informing him that I couldn’t say “no” to that last piece of succulent chicken dripping in cheese and sour cream. His disconsolate reply being something along the lines of “We knew he had a problem- and tried to help him…I blame myself” before the emotion of my passing got too much for him and a colleague- oh lets say Gerry, would take the phone and get the last bit a information regarding my decline and as they clear my desk of my unkempt paper work and doodles they’d find a half eaten fajita that I used to nibble on when it all got too much. Anyway, as the rather large piece of chicken that was worrying lodged in my windpipe and caused the puke s to dribble down my nose, blew out of my mouth and into our toilet I felt much, much better.

Sunday was built around the watching of the England game, which the viewing was held around our gaffe. This of course meant tidying the flat and me scrubbing the toilet to remove any traces of last night’s Technicolor yawn. The proposed idea was for the male contingency to close ranks and discuss the matters in hand on the useless manager’s selection policy and discussing a wide range of football related topics, but despite all the best intentions being made, at kick off I was surrounded by five women and Steve. Ho hum. Of course Lisa took great umbrage when I explained my need for male company during this sporting festival, as to be fair Lisa has watched/let me watch most of the games and aside from her curious repetitive questioning, it’s been good. I guess I was always destined to enjoy football on my own.

The same bad luck occurred when I was a football crazy youth, banished to the kitchen to watch the majority of the Italia 90 tournament on a small 10” black and white screen. I genuinely wasn’t aware that Holland played in Orange if it wasn’t for my weekly subscription to Shoot! Magazine. I can also remember the seething frustration of watching England’s pitiful displays in the presence of my mother, who bless her, would always ask stupid-yet naively insightful questions like “why aren’t they playing better?” or “why don’t they just pass it to Gazza?”. Obviously trying to suppress a thousand swearwords for the benefit of my mother whilst watching our National team fail to deliver at the big stage once more as had it’s worrying effects on my health and hair line.

Of the vast majority of matches I’ve attended Spurs have usually been defeated in a humble manner not befitting the team which I have followed since my Primary School days, with the exceptions of those games I went to on my own (only happened twice) or when I have only been able to get tickets for the opposition’s supporters’ end, which is as bitter sweet as it gets- to see your team play like Gods, yet you can’t jump up and down a stick two fingers up the rival supporters. Worse than that was when I last attended a Premiership game : Newcastle Utd vs. The not-so-mighty Tottenham Hotspur. I was sat with my brother and my Dad in the Newcastle end up in the nose bleed section, and we lost 4-0. Of course there is greater feeling of unhappiness than seeing your beloved team let in another soft goal and being hugged by some gap toothed Geordie Neanderthal.

It was all in consequential in the end as England won, and despite my muttered complaints it was cool to share the frustration with others especially as the obligatory watching through the fingers for the last ten minutes applied to all.

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