OK. This is better. I’m finally beginning to recover from the annual Invasion of the Welsh Fuckers. I went for a walk today with Jimbo and the dogs (his and mine), through the University and down by the river at Plassey. Lovely. The water level has receded a good bit since the flooding and the old canal on the Clare side is a distinct waterway again instead of simply being part of the general wetness.
I was surprised that Jimbo didn’t appear at our other pub of choice on Sunday night, after the match, and I said so.
I was surprised you didn’t appear at our other pub of choice on Sunday night.
Are you fuckin crazy? he said. I walked into a fuckin mad-house. Welsh fuckers dancing on tables. John ‘n’ Murty playing Tom fucking Jones, for fucksake. Drunken fuckers everywhere. People laughing and hugging each other. It was horrible.
Yeah, I said. I could see how that would repulse you.
No, seriously, he said. I was sober.
Suddenly, it all made sense.
Sober? I ventured.
Stone cold, he confirmed.
Jesus, I whispered in admiration. You walked into our other pub of choice sober? On Sunday night? After the rugby match? Against Wales?
Yes, he replied. Yes, yes and yes.
Jesus, I repeated.
I know, he reassured me. I could see you and the Vulva Painter at the bar.
Yeah, I said. We were hammered.
No shit? he said.
Yeah. We went out to see the game and we just didn’t make it home.
I know, he sympathised. So you’ve been in bed ever since, I suppose, like any sensible human.
Ehh, no, I had to concede. You see, Scunthorpe were on the telly last night.
Scunthorpe? On the telly?
Yeah. Sky Sports. They were playing Bristol City. Fuck it, I had to see the game and the only place I thought it might be on was the Bank.
So you went to the pub again, right?
Right. What could I do?
I called the Vulva Painter again, and he came in. We watched it together. It was great, and Scunthorpe won a thrilling encounter and Billy Sharp scored his 21st goal of the season on his 21st birthday. Isn’t that great? I even cried.
As you would, said Jimbo. So how do you feel now?
Well, I replied, Are you familiar with the works of Lou Reed?
In a passing way, he acknowledged.
Do you remember the Blue Mask album?
Yes, he said. I hated it.
Good, I replied. There was a song on it called Waves of Fear.
Yes, Jimbo nodded.
Waves of revulsion, sickening sight.
That’s right, said Jimbo, but Lou Reed is well known for hating rugby and soccer.
True, I agreed.