I don't know whether I'm looking forward to it or not. On the whole, not, I think. I mean, come on, getting up early on a Sunday and driving for over 2 hours so I can spend two days with people from work, in a shared house, sharing a bedroom with somebody - would you?
I've been trying to think of a happy place that I can escape to in my head for if it gets really bad. I can't think of one off the top of my head. Perhaps I could go for the eight hour trip over the Cascades in Washington with April and her three year old? "I want my daddy, I want my daddy, I want my daddy, I want my daddy. Are we seeing daddy soon? Can we see the boys tomorrow? And then you saw me dead".
Or perhaps I could relive the three months after Jo split up with me?
Maybe I could take myself back to the most excrutiating pain I've ever experienced.
Of course, such pain would either come from sickening stomach ache that once rendered me doubled-up in pain in bed for eight ours once, or the alternative is the back ache that cripples me on occasion. Like today for instance. It always gets me at the weekend. I don't know whether it's related to having a couple of extra hours in bed on Saturday morning, or the fact that I'm not up and at them straight away like on school days, but always at the weekend I find myself unable to walk because of back pain.
Today's experience was made doubly worse because it coincided with a trip to the local Netto. I'd only gone in there for a quick browse, but once inside, I realised that there was no escape without going through a till - the tills are only wide enough to get one person through at a time too. Why do these horrible povvy shops trap their customers inside? They have those stupid entry barriers that only open inwards into the shop and the only way out is through the till. Fucking cunts. Then again, my limping, groaning under my breath and grimmacing helped me fit in perfectly with the rest of the shoppers in there, all of whom were a pretty good representative cross-section of Rochdale's finest citizens.
Returning home meant me crossing over the main road. There isn't a pedestrian crossing to use, so you just have to wait for a gap in the traffic and hope for the best. I'd made it half way across to the safety of a hatched area of the carriageway when a kindly car driver slowed down and flashed his headlamps to indicate that I could go. So as not to cause undue delay to him, I tried to run. My left knee and lower back simultaneously emitted agonising thrusts of pain and I kind of ran, kind of lumbered forward a la Hunchback of Notre Dame, making it to the other side of the road, but almost unable to lift my foot onto the kerb.
I'm a wreck.
On the subject of scumbag supermarkets and scumbags in general, what about that Karen Matthews eh? She's the woman from Dewsbury in Yorkshire who arranged for her own daughter to be kidnapped so she could get a load of media attention and sell her story for £50,000 to whoever would pay.
You can have a look at Karen in this photostream from the Times online, but this particular image speaks a thousand words:
[caption id="attachment_1876" align="aligncenter" width="350" caption="Karen Matthews shops at Asda"]
[/caption]Just look at her, lugging her shopping back from Asda. Typical of the sort of person you get at Asda. And that's exactly why I never shop there myself.
Big Brother
Depending on how things go in Wales, I might be tempted to audition for this summer's Big Brother. Imagine it, Sniffy trapped in a house for up to 12 weeks 10 or so other people, all of whom are utter freaks, their every moved covered on camera, broadcast to the nation on Channel 4.
Milk
I watched Milk this evening. A very powerful film documenting the rise of San Francisco's gay rights movement, led by Harvey Milk (Sean Penn). Two words: watch it.
Au revoir, mes amis
So this is it for now. I'm sure the next few days will fly by. I will return with hopefully, nothing much to report. Stuff to report will mean that I spent the duration in my happy place, whichever one I opt for.
6 comments:
Think of at as a retreat in a non Catholic atheistic type of way and you should be OK.
Be aware that the house does not not allow smoking, which means nicking the urn from the kitchen and going for a chuff in the basement.
Sean Penn is a prosthetic penis.
I shall take myself off to the cliffs with my camera and my fags and I shall click and chuff away to my heart's content (and my heart's failure).
Sean Penn is a bit of a dick, but he's an annoyingly good actor at times.
OR.... you could just smoke a little pot and sleep (or munch) the days away. Alternatively, you could spike their food with drugs or exlax which would be quite entertaining.
I betcha Sean Penn is a right wanker - however, I do have to agree I don't mind his acting at times.
Visiting Welshland is like travelling back in time. Think of it like being in the starring role of The Land That Time Forgot - at least you look the part.
Sean Penn is a cunt. I've always had a very strong dislike of him. But I have to (and hate to) admit, he was excellent in the role of Harvey Milk.
I know! Pretend that you're a character in an Enid Blyton adventure.
"The Extended Famous Five.
in The Strange Case of Welshland"
You could be that curly haired wee lass, you know - the one with the wonky eye and the callipers that always got written out of the story by the second page.
Ahem.
C'mon you lazy bitch.
We want to know all about it!
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