Then off to work – which being a Saturday should be illegal – unless of course, someone’s life is in danger. Or, I want to go and buy something. Or I want someone to cook my food. OK. Let me add a correction. Let the statutes read that it should be illegal for ME to work on a Saturday. The rest of you can get on with it, you lazy shower of bastards.
Then the gym – recent calorific intake has been based mainly on sugar and fat so a workout is totally necessary to try and halt this middle-aged spread. Fat chance. Pun intended.
While I was at the gym the sports channels were full of world cup news – and anyway, who cares about England – but there was some interesting stuff AND a coca cola advert that grabbed my attention. It focused on the celebrations of goal scorers. You know how it works – Coca Cola try to associate themselves with all that joy and happiness. If you drink their product you are going to feel nothing but ...you got it, joy and happiness. The star of the advert is Roger Milla the striker from Cameroon who famously danced with the corner flag at the World Cup. As you do. The final shot was of the now retired Roger in among the crowd smiling widely. Displaying a lack of teeth. I’m thinking Coca Cola weren’t aiming for “Joy, Celebration and Tooth Decay” when they spent all that money.
Came out of the gym to find that Scotland was suddenly warm enough to grow grapes. What a beautiful day. It was apposite to remind myself that just over a week ago it was snowing.
Global warming. Mmmmm.
See me doing an impression of Graham Norton.
Got home to find my house should have been declared a national fucking disaster. Oh My God. Why did no one tell me that this kind of work made such a mess? There was me driving home from the gym thinking I had nothing more to do than pull on a pair of shorts and take a book into the garden.
Nay and three times nay.
Every room in the house was in a mess. The fire place has a gaping hole – like Roger Milla’s gob – and one of my kitchen units is in the back garden. To be fair the guys cleaned up what they could, but I still had three and a half hours of cleaning and tidying up ahead of me.
Work done and I drove to the supermarket. I set out to go to the Chinese but some inner demon had me drive to Tesco and load up with a baguette, goats cheese, parma ham and a bottle of very fine red wine. Well, it cost a tenner. Izzat a sign of quality? All I know about red wine is that it’s red and if you drink too much you end up dancing naked in your garden.
Not sure how the food compares on the health stakes with a Chinese takeaway. I’m thinking a lack of monosodium glutamate must be a good thing. And just celebrate all those free radicals in the wine. Wuhoo.
Now, I’m watching the Champions League Final on the TV and about to throw my empty wine bottle through the screen if these idiot TV presenters don’t pull their collective noses out of Jose Mourinho’s arse. They barely paid him any notice before his stint in England, but now he’s proved himself in the self-titled “Best League in the World it’s like there aren’t any players on the pitch. It’s all about Jose. Gimme a freakin’ break.
I need more wine. Anyone know a delivery service for wine? I feel a wee dance coming on...oh, and there go my shorts...