I’m in no fuckin mood to write anything today. Let me alone.
It’s been a non-day in many ways and it looks like getting even nonner as the evening wears on. A bland, grey, overcast ripple in the space-beer continuum.
I didn’t even manage to crawl out of bed until about eleven, which was not unconnected with going out on the town far too early yesterday, and staying up far too late. (Name of figure of speech: Litotes).
I didn’t even enjoy the Market very much, stopping only to buy a loaf of wholemeal bread and a half dozen extra-large eggs before heading to Nancy’s for my customary Saturday-morning coffee and read of the paper. But even that little pleasure has been spoiled for me lately by a goddamn stalker.
I jest not.
This person is someone I decided to bar from making comments here on this web-site. No explanations and no apologies. In my absolute dictatorshipness, I sometimes make such decisions because, you see, I pay the bills and therefore I can do that if I like.
Anyhow, this individual has lately started to turn up in Nancy’s looking for me on Saturday mornings, and of course, if he ever finds me he’ll be smartly told to go fuck himself.
It pisses me off intensely that I can’t even enjoy my grumpy Saturday morning wrestling with the Sudoku an my own, in peace, unmolested, without some fool demanding to know why I won’t publish his idiot opinions.
Luckily, I’m surrounded by informants, agents, minions, henchmen and underlings, all of whom work hand-in-glove to frustrate this stalker in his efforts.
Howya lads. Any sign of Bock?
He just left. He’s gone on a mission to Somalia to fight pirates. He’ll be back in about a year.
Oh. Right. Thanks.
And as the door swings shut, I peep out under the bar counter. Is he gone yet?
‘Tis safe now, Bock. Come on out and take off that false beard.
Don’t mention it, Bock. He’s a gowl.
The afternoon wasn’t a great improvement. Bullet and myself watched the Ireland – Argentina game. When I say watched, I really mean that we sat in front of the TV with our eyelids propped open by toothpicks while eating amphetamine sandwiches and cocaine-flavoured nachos. Thank God I didn’t accept those free tickets the other fella offered me yesterday.
Fuck. Dismal. The only bit I remember is when OGara lost his mind and for no reason at all attacked one of the Argentinian players from behind. Dreadful shit.
That was followed by the All Blacks demolishing Wales, which wasn’t quite as bad as Ireland’s performance last week. At least Wales put up a bit of a fight in the first half, and I was able to snooze every now and again when the boredom got too much for me.
To cheer myself up, I thought I might do a bit of baking, which isn’t something you’ll hear me saying very often.
You see, I’m not a bad cook, when it comes to things like Indian food, or maybe a bit of a casserole, and I can do an assortment of sauces to dress your perfectly-prepared and presented steak. I can prepare a selection of roasted vegetables to accompany it. I can make you a nice soup from the freshest ingredients and I guarantee you’ll like it. My barbecued spare ribs in honey and cider are legendary.
But I don’t bake.
That was why I just had a feeling that the muffins wouldn’t be a huge success and as it happened, I was right. The muffins were not only unappetising: they were revolting, soggy camel-turds that the dog refused to eat.
Could it get worse, I wonder?
Parkenstein suggested going out, but with my luck today it’ll probably turn out to be a great big ball of shite.