Translation: Wife free version

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Friday night I couldnt be bothered to do my usual Three Horseshoes thing so I stayed at home and annoyed the wife by mopeing about. arsed walking past the gang of youths from last week who tend to congregate outside the chip shop. Saturday came in a flash and an early rise resulted in the two of us heading into Cudworth to see Father-in-law. He had brought me a birthday present of a BHS mini wine rack. came far too quickly the wife had me getting up at the crack of dawn so that we could go round to her sisters and see her dad who was his usual non-talkative self.

Further pre-Christmas joy was had clearing the garden of all the mess the electricians made and taking loads of rubble bags to the council tip. Getting my only bit of exercise this month by lugging great big bags of fucking rubble that the electricians, kitcheneers and plasterers said they wouldn’t leave, into the back of the Vectra and Fiesta. Only then to get a polite ticking off for blocking the back lane from Mr Pritchard. Then driving the wet and dusty stuff to the tip only to get even more mucky and ruin my coat. This ecstasy was only heightened by a delightful walk through the local Co-Op after doing the two months worth of recycling that had built up Yeah two months of soggy newspapers, mouldy beer and bean tins, slimy vinegaresque empty bottles of wine and Recycling skips that were so full the only way of getting the damn cans in was to poke the holes in the skip with a stick in an effort to get the cans down. Of course the fucking stick was mucky too…guess where that muck ended up? . Then, just when I thought I might explode with delight, the wife and I headed into Wakefield to do some Christmas shopping. Then she tells me “Oh we need to go to Wakefield for a few things. I hadnt had my tablets and I was already tired out from lugging bags of rubble and having to get up early

Ah! The joy one gets from seeing sullen faced individuals dragging screaming and kicking brats through the crowded stores and small shops; from experiencing the tight shuffle of trying to squeeze past someones fat arse in a cramped shop displaying delicate pieces of merchandise skilfully positioned so that a thread of cotton trailing from ones coat can cause a scene like a Greek wedding with all the broken crockery. The charm of walking from shop to shop with arm breakingly heavy and awkwardly shaped bags and having to wait outside for fear of injuring someone. Bollocks. I absolutely hate aimless shopping. I want to know what I’ve come for and where it is. But, when you’ve got familes that dont want for anything anymore, what the fuck do you get people? Added to that lack of time and ideas to actually make them something. No, I had to walk round and round like a headless donkey (I was laden with bags) looking for things that someone might just like. When you have a bunch of ungrateful and fussy relatives and there really isn’t anything worth buying in your price range, the last thing you need is FUCKING JONA LEWIS “STOP THE CAVALRY” playing for the 900th time in an hour. I could feel the rage and the loathing rising. Thoughts of mass murder a la Michael Ryan flashed through my head. I then found myself stood at the bottom of George Street looking over the blood stained pavements littered with corpses, young, old and inbetween. A battered and bloodied push me pull you shopping trolley in my hand… “Merry Fucking Christm-arse” I hissed

Before long it was 5pm and we headed home for our evening appointment with our neighbours, Gareth (G-the-Human-Dog) and Debbie. Beers were had, discussion was heard and revelations about other village members and how Brierley Town Council actually run their set up in a professional yet orderly fashion. Further horrors awaited. Sodding Gareth the gossip who you just cannot shut the fuck up didn’t say a word, in preference to Little Britain reruns on BBC3. I’d come round for conversation not to watch god awful unfunny comedies and shit sequels (Candyman II: Farewell to the Flesh) So then at midnight when I got up to leave he started talking and kept us there for another half hour talking shite about how because they have fucking 1948320980348230945834095683 kids they have no money. Simple solution buddy, prophylactics. Finally getting out of their house at 12:45 it took a further half hour to get into our house as he stood talking about meteor showers and how clear the skies are.

Sunday, being my birthday, meant a total of 12 birthday cards, a home electronics kit from the wife and a visit from our tiler, Ben, who came to do the kitchen Expecting a lie in for my birthday was probably too much to even conjure up the thought processes. Wide eyed I came down stairs to open the sorry pile of birthday cards. One of which had been secreted inside another and different one had a Christmas card inside. Cheap skates. At 11am the phone didn’t stop ringing, interrupting my enjoyment ofCountryfile . I really wasnt in the mood for people at this stage being an awful grump due to lack of bisoprolol (the chemist didn’t have any in until today), lack of attention (the wife was too busy directing Ben on how she wanted the tiling done) and the want to be back in bed. Instead I sat playing Civilization 4 all day to take my mind off things. I lost, which didn’t enhance my mood. Polished off by a slap up meal at the China City in Glasshoughton. I wanted to go to the Eastern Court not China City. I had a dirty glass, a 19 month old bairn and a whopping great cyberman mask (present from the sisters-in-law) to contend with. The glass was easily ignored by drinking from the bottle, the cyberman mask slid nicely under the table and Merry was very well behaved. This heightened my mood but there was a shadow of dread as I was expecting the waiters to come out with a fucking cake. Fortunately they didn’t so I didn’t have to hide any corpses in the King Prawn Foo Yung. I went home happy until about 11pm when I realised I would have to go to work in the morning. Which made my newly discovered euphoria resemble the Hindenburg and R101 disasters

Author: stegzy

Once, long ago, I wrote frequently on Livejournal. I then moved to Blogspot, where I discovered that blogging requires an audience. So I moved back to LJ. Then over to Dreamwidth, back to LJ, up the road of self hosting with Muckybadger before giving up entirely and moving over to Wordpress. It was at that moment I decided I would spread my compostual nonsense simultaneously across the blogosphere like some rancid margarine. And so here I am. I am a badger. But then I'm not really a badger. I am a human. With badger like tendencies. I am a writer, a film producer and a social commentator. I am available for Breakfast TV shows, documentaries and chats in the pub with journalists where I am more than qualified enough to talk confidently about absolute shite and bollocks.

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