Weekend, it's the weekend
Much to tell from weekend. Will try to be brief, or will end up writing thesis. (Although, having examined the opening two sentences - and I use the word sentence with care, as I suspect they aren't - doing without assorted pronouns, articles and verbs may not be the best way to shorten the post).
Saturday afternoon: played rugby. This is becoming a slightly tenuous activity, age wise. Though I am far from the oldest, sad to say. Anyway, rampaged around the village pitch for the second team, flattening fat blokes (and this is the prime reason for undertaking such an activity: it is such a good stress relief), and it's legal. We lost 38-0. Carry on.
Then retired to the bar, where the boys had another amusing round of 'deaf twat'. I should explain: I am deaf in my right ear, have been for seven or eight years. The rules are simple: the contestants stand to my right, unnoticed by me, and someone whispers 'deaf twat'. The next person has to say 'deaf twat' a bit louder, and so on. The loser, who is obliged to ceremoniously Get A Round In, is the person who (a) says 'deaf twat' more quietly than the person before; (b) is heard by me. This is Typical Rugby Humour. The usual response is for me to consider in an intellectual but critical manner the relative size of the loser's penis.
Home for a change of shirt, and to Flash Pete's with the LOML for a champagne blind tasting party. Lots of bottles of champagne and a few cheap cava, wrapped in kitchen foil to disguise their identity, for us to mark out of ten and make comments over, to be ridiculed later when it turns out you've given the Bolly one out of ten and said it smells like dogshit (you know who you are). Genial Gaz, a good mate visiting from the wilds of Gloucestershire, had made a mulled cider punch with added, ah, metaxa and armagnac to start the evening off; so what with the couple of pints I'd had at the club the comments became a bit blurry towards the tenth bottle. 'Starts off thin but gets better, like a recovering bulemic' made me giggle like a little girl for far longer than was justifiable. Nothing like a joke you've made yourself to make you laugh.
Highlight of the karaoke to follow was Mumbling Nige. He and I were about the only two present who haven't at some point been in a choir, so I think that 'Let It Be' was a brave choice. The high bit was a particular joy. I think I got away with 'House Of The Rising Sun', largely cos it's pretty much all nice low notes. The others were all good enough to do descants over each other, and not cock it up. The gits. The Barrister (so-called because he's, uh, a barrister) did The Banana Boat Song, which retrospectively was slightly surreal experience. He did it well though.
Sunday, and took my delicate head to see the latest Harry Potter at the cinema. Child One brought his new school friend, who was to say the least a bit of a chatterer; he seems pretty much incapable of not vocalising whatever wanders into his head at the time. He held a lengthy two-sided conversation with himself at one point, about which is the greater: 'unlimited', or 'infinity'. He even did different voices for each point of view. He seems to use his whole face to blink as well. Ho hum. Enjoyed the film though, despite Child Two crawling into my lap at all the scary bits (note to self: when it says 12A on the certificate, do not be surprised when seven year old finds it frightening). Great bit of escapism, love all the special effects and stuff. Just a big kid myself, really. Wish it was real, and I really could go to Hogwarts and fly on broomsticks and get up to all sorts of magical japes and wheezes.
[Insert poignant last sentence about unfulfilled life leading to Walter Mitty-esque fantasy here].
*Edit* Today is a good day! The regular Christmas present from Favourite Aunt has been delivered: case of wine and spirits from the Wine Society. Was starting to worry it wasn't coming and looking back through year to see if I'd offended her somehow. Bless her! And bless her again!
Saturday afternoon: played rugby. This is becoming a slightly tenuous activity, age wise. Though I am far from the oldest, sad to say. Anyway, rampaged around the village pitch for the second team, flattening fat blokes (and this is the prime reason for undertaking such an activity: it is such a good stress relief), and it's legal. We lost 38-0. Carry on.
Then retired to the bar, where the boys had another amusing round of 'deaf twat'. I should explain: I am deaf in my right ear, have been for seven or eight years. The rules are simple: the contestants stand to my right, unnoticed by me, and someone whispers 'deaf twat'. The next person has to say 'deaf twat' a bit louder, and so on. The loser, who is obliged to ceremoniously Get A Round In, is the person who (a) says 'deaf twat' more quietly than the person before; (b) is heard by me. This is Typical Rugby Humour. The usual response is for me to consider in an intellectual but critical manner the relative size of the loser's penis.
Home for a change of shirt, and to Flash Pete's with the LOML for a champagne blind tasting party. Lots of bottles of champagne and a few cheap cava, wrapped in kitchen foil to disguise their identity, for us to mark out of ten and make comments over, to be ridiculed later when it turns out you've given the Bolly one out of ten and said it smells like dogshit (you know who you are). Genial Gaz, a good mate visiting from the wilds of Gloucestershire, had made a mulled cider punch with added, ah, metaxa and armagnac to start the evening off; so what with the couple of pints I'd had at the club the comments became a bit blurry towards the tenth bottle. 'Starts off thin but gets better, like a recovering bulemic' made me giggle like a little girl for far longer than was justifiable. Nothing like a joke you've made yourself to make you laugh.
Highlight of the karaoke to follow was Mumbling Nige. He and I were about the only two present who haven't at some point been in a choir, so I think that 'Let It Be' was a brave choice. The high bit was a particular joy. I think I got away with 'House Of The Rising Sun', largely cos it's pretty much all nice low notes. The others were all good enough to do descants over each other, and not cock it up. The gits. The Barrister (so-called because he's, uh, a barrister) did The Banana Boat Song, which retrospectively was slightly surreal experience. He did it well though.
Sunday, and took my delicate head to see the latest Harry Potter at the cinema. Child One brought his new school friend, who was to say the least a bit of a chatterer; he seems pretty much incapable of not vocalising whatever wanders into his head at the time. He held a lengthy two-sided conversation with himself at one point, about which is the greater: 'unlimited', or 'infinity'. He even did different voices for each point of view. He seems to use his whole face to blink as well. Ho hum. Enjoyed the film though, despite Child Two crawling into my lap at all the scary bits (note to self: when it says 12A on the certificate, do not be surprised when seven year old finds it frightening). Great bit of escapism, love all the special effects and stuff. Just a big kid myself, really. Wish it was real, and I really could go to Hogwarts and fly on broomsticks and get up to all sorts of magical japes and wheezes.
[Insert poignant last sentence about unfulfilled life leading to Walter Mitty-esque fantasy here].
*Edit* Today is a good day! The regular Christmas present from Favourite Aunt has been delivered: case of wine and spirits from the Wine Society. Was starting to worry it wasn't coming and looking back through year to see if I'd offended her somehow. Bless her! And bless her again!
posted by crisiswhatcrisis at
10:06 am
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home