The rain coming at your from three directions. Andrew Castle - aka the most pointless of pointless people - on the television. Strawberries up a pound a punit in Tescos. Lots of photos of young Eastern European girls in short white dresses. Union Jacks fluttering from newspaper stalls. Lots of photos of Boris Becker coming out of cupboards in restaurants..sorry restaurants....oh bollocks. It's Wimbledon again.
And, as predictable and inevitable as the annual return of the tournament, Tim Henwoman dragged out his first match with the tenacity and determination and vile wig hairdo that we have come to expect of this particular national treasure. The four times Wimbledon semi-finalist - do I really need to go on? - has been all over the media talking about his 'epic' first round match against some beaner. And he (Henwoman) will go on to beat some French bloke in on a wild card, struggle to win another five set 'epic' against a butch Spanish woman who accidentally got put in the men's tournament, keep us all baying for Britain like Billy Bragg as he flounders and flukes his way past some Dutch dude who is better known for his doubles, and then finally get drummed by a real tennis player despite the protesting whistles and screams from Henman Hill. (I can think of nothing worse than being on Henman Hill when Henwoman is playing, apart from maybe having to listen to Cliff Richard sing the crowd through the rain with a few of his 60s hits - or both together...I'm moving to Poland.)
It wouldn't bother me so much if it wasn't quite so achingly inevitable. Tim Henman is never ever ever going to win Wimbledon. He was never going to either. Am I making it up, or did Boris Becker say this last year? Maybe it was a dream? You know, the one where me and mrs househusbandnot win the lottery and Neil Young asks me to play lead guitar live with him and then Beatrice Dalle whispers to me that she really fancies mrs househusbandnot and I can talk to animals and Daniel Craig gets turned down for the lead role in hhn The Movie because he is not buff enough in his swimming cossie and I feel in my jacket pocket and it is full of magic beans and Andy Warhol turns to me and says "I just have so many of these Mao portraits. Why don't you take a few of them hhn?"
Thankfully - or interestingly - our TV stopped working last night, so we can't actually watch any Wimbledon until we get a new one. (mrs hhn thinks that either she or I have some sort of weird electrical energy that fuses electrical appliances. Few too many gins there me thinks.) So hopefully by the time we do get a new TV little Timmy's valiant struggle will be over, and we can watch some real men (and women) play some decent tennis rather than the rather half-arsed effort that Henperson makes of every point and game and set and match. Talk about laboured.
Anyway, in other sporting news off to the 20 20 cricket at The Oval with Styx this afternoon. Will report back.
Jun 26, 2007
Jun 25, 2007
Slap That Bass Whitey
Returned home last night after a long day of househusbandnotnoting aka being at work to a seemingly innocent pencil written note on a pad on the kitchen table from mrs househusbandnot asking me to 'feed the wormies if you have time darling'.
Now, to you (and the other five of you who read this blog), this note may have seemed innocent, polite, sweet even. But I knew, and mrs hhn knew, that I have been ignoring the wormery for a week or so because last time I looked in there I was attacked by a swarm of insects straight out of the early parts of The Old Testament, an assault I responded to by throwing half a loaf of bread and a bowl of rice into the cavernous hell that is the worm-inhabited bit of the wormery, and running for cover into the sitting room hoping that the whole wormery/Hades thing would just disappear. (And here mrs hhn's colleague who I have often judged for leaving a live wormery when you left your last house, I applaud you for your sense and courage.)
But, being the trooper/sucker that I am, I responded to mrs hhn's leadened note, and ventured out onto the balcony clutching my worm stick (don't ask) in one hand and a large glass of scotch in the other. I took off one layer (imagine three or four large perforated hat boxes each stacked on top of each other, the idea being that as the worms breed you encourage them to move further up the boxes until you start over by putting the top layer back into the bottom [the sort of thing people used to get burned at the stake for in the middle ages]) to reveal not only an appalling Parfume Du Somme but also a whole layer of rotting food that the worms had not ventured up into. So I had to empty that layer of food out into a bin liner, drain three full buckets of worm juice aka Satan's Death Oil into buckets, and then rake out the layer that the worms were still in and then feed the fuckers. hhn + wormery - attention to wormery + this experience = a need to die. I spent most of the rest of the evening lying in the bath trying to rid myself of the Parfume Du Somme and the thought of those worms just a few feet away on the balcony, and that oh so innocent note from mrs hhn.
I know in the end of the day the chores do get divied up within a relationship, but why do my chores always involve dirt and shit and decaying things? And I should have known something was up when mrs hhn called me during the day, before I'd got home to the note/order, and sweetly told me she had taken a steak out of the freezer for my supper since she was going out for supper. I should have cut my losses and fed the worms the steak, drained the scotch into my mouth via the bucket, written mrs hhn a similarly pencilled note asking her to 're tile the roofey-oofey if you have time when you get back from supper darling', and spent the evening with my new chums on facebook.
In other news, off to a breakfast meeting this morning. Can't fuckin' wait. Like people wearing trainers with their suits to work, I refuse to embrace this American idea. The theory is that we are all so busy and keen that we are happy to get up at a berzillion o'clock and tramp off to some crowded coffee house to juggle our note pads over the milky coffees and stale pastries. The practice is tired people looking tiredly at each other trying to work out why we could not have met later for lunch.
Incidentally, watched The Departed this weekend. Can someone explain to me why Marky Markkk had to shoot the bloke at the end? (Great live version of Comfortably Numb by Van The Man on the soundtrack btw.) And loving Sons And Daughters too, if a little distracted by the memory of that terrible Level 42 song of the same name.
Now, to you (and the other five of you who read this blog), this note may have seemed innocent, polite, sweet even. But I knew, and mrs hhn knew, that I have been ignoring the wormery for a week or so because last time I looked in there I was attacked by a swarm of insects straight out of the early parts of The Old Testament, an assault I responded to by throwing half a loaf of bread and a bowl of rice into the cavernous hell that is the worm-inhabited bit of the wormery, and running for cover into the sitting room hoping that the whole wormery/Hades thing would just disappear. (And here mrs hhn's colleague who I have often judged for leaving a live wormery when you left your last house, I applaud you for your sense and courage.)
But, being the trooper/sucker that I am, I responded to mrs hhn's leadened note, and ventured out onto the balcony clutching my worm stick (don't ask) in one hand and a large glass of scotch in the other. I took off one layer (imagine three or four large perforated hat boxes each stacked on top of each other, the idea being that as the worms breed you encourage them to move further up the boxes until you start over by putting the top layer back into the bottom [the sort of thing people used to get burned at the stake for in the middle ages]) to reveal not only an appalling Parfume Du Somme but also a whole layer of rotting food that the worms had not ventured up into. So I had to empty that layer of food out into a bin liner, drain three full buckets of worm juice aka Satan's Death Oil into buckets, and then rake out the layer that the worms were still in and then feed the fuckers. hhn + wormery - attention to wormery + this experience = a need to die. I spent most of the rest of the evening lying in the bath trying to rid myself of the Parfume Du Somme and the thought of those worms just a few feet away on the balcony, and that oh so innocent note from mrs hhn.
I know in the end of the day the chores do get divied up within a relationship, but why do my chores always involve dirt and shit and decaying things? And I should have known something was up when mrs hhn called me during the day, before I'd got home to the note/order, and sweetly told me she had taken a steak out of the freezer for my supper since she was going out for supper. I should have cut my losses and fed the worms the steak, drained the scotch into my mouth via the bucket, written mrs hhn a similarly pencilled note asking her to 're tile the roofey-oofey if you have time when you get back from supper darling', and spent the evening with my new chums on facebook.
In other news, off to a breakfast meeting this morning. Can't fuckin' wait. Like people wearing trainers with their suits to work, I refuse to embrace this American idea. The theory is that we are all so busy and keen that we are happy to get up at a berzillion o'clock and tramp off to some crowded coffee house to juggle our note pads over the milky coffees and stale pastries. The practice is tired people looking tiredly at each other trying to work out why we could not have met later for lunch.
Incidentally, watched The Departed this weekend. Can someone explain to me why Marky Markkk had to shoot the bloke at the end? (Great live version of Comfortably Numb by Van The Man on the soundtrack btw.) And loving Sons And Daughters too, if a little distracted by the memory of that terrible Level 42 song of the same name.
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