Abuse April 28, 2006Posted by BiB in Uncategorized.
Tags: booze, sport
Gosh, those flag posts don’t ‘arf (why not ‘alf?) take it out of you. I haven’t had such blogstipation since, well, the Punjab in ’77. I should never have risked that garam masala. And now, as shortly after any bout of the aforementioned ailment, I’m overcome with grief at all the vignettes I could potentially have blogged. All the little slices of life that would have had you gripped. All the tales of household bliss. Of blithe concubinage. Of intercultural relationships. Of DIY. Of how my Italian dictionary – note to self (another one): when asked to do an Italian-English translation, remind yourself, “BiB, you DO NOT speak Italian. Being able to pronounce the name of dishes and knowing that gn doesn’t have a g sound in it does not count” – was so made by a boy. In that inbetweeny bit where one lingo ends and its partner begins, there are a squillion illustrated-in-colour pages of boyish things with the Italian and English names for them. Who knew that ‘mud flap’ was ‘aletta parafango’ in Italian, eh? I think it’s Italy 1 England 0 on the poetry stakes there. Mud flap could only mean, well, mud flap, or be the name of a particularly grim village in some godforsaken county in the environs of the M62. Whereas Aletta Parafango… Well, Aletta Parafango could be anything. She could quite easily have been a revolutionary type. Dario Fo’s probably been to bed, or had wrongness in a meadow, with a heavily belipsticked lady called Aletta Parafango, cigarettes smoked throughout. Or it could easily be Italian for, say, Spotted Dick. (I once heard Spotted Dick said in the best comedy French accent ever. I mean, by an actual French person. He pronounced Dick ‘deek’, of course, but it was just perfect.) Or might easily be the Italians’ denomination for a type of spicy cocktail, a Shag at Butlins, or whatever that cocktail is called. Aletta Parafango. Marvellous. Hurrah for Italians. But I mustn’t translate from your language again. At least not for money. I just mustn’t.
Yes, so, blogging. Well, it’s relentless, isn’t it? You upload a few words to amuse yourself and hopefully another couple of kind folk and then before you know it it’s time to do another bloody one. Couldn’t blogger perhaps put a time limit on them, so that once you’ve reached 500 posts or whatever, your blog just nicely dies?
But, anyway, onwards and upwards.
So I was thinking. What to write about today, now that the occasion has presented itself so providentially. It was a toss-up. Football, of all things, so nearly won the day. Its defeat is not utterly ignominious because I’m still going to give Middlesbrough a mentionette. Did anyone watch their glorious victory over Steaua Bucharest? German commentary only made the occasion all the better. 3-0 down on aggregate and then storming back to win 4-3. It was north-east-tastic. But would I not like to bump into ANY female Middlesbrough supporter in a dark alley. Ever. I think it was the thought of getting mugged by them that made the players up their performance and do the fans proud. And don’t think for a second that I failed to mention to the Russian within a microsecond of the final whistle being blown that England has a team in two European finals and that Zenit – admittedly ‘our’ Russian team, from St. Petersburg – was knocked out by Partick Thistle or someone about 25 qualifying rounds ago. Because I did. “Probably Russian owns team,” he said back, languidly and good-lookingly. So I’ve stolen his cigarettes as a punishment.
No, what the meat of this post just has to be is booze. Awful news. I’ve given it up. Not for ever, I suppose, as then life would just be uncontemplatable. But, like it or not, I have, for the time being, given up booze. Which now means I am a non-person. Such a wrench. My personality only truly ever came to life/light once the first euphoria-inducing glug of Weissbier had passed my lips and tonsilless throat. I’m hoping there’s going to be an upside to all this, but it’s yet to surface. (Still, it’s only been a week.)
This is all to do with health, allegedly. I wrote a few posts back that my body now resembled something only vaguely reminiscent of the (male) human form. I am still mulling frantically all the ideas kind bloggers gave me about which sport an utterly unsporty blogger should take up. Frantically. The trouble is I still get a hot flush whenever I think that Mr. Decline and Fall does both rowing and weights. (God I fancy a beer.) But, anyway, I’ve decided booze is the root of all evil and that it has to – temporarily, I repeat – go. Which is awfully dreary. I’ve tried to make myself addicted to Bionade, but that’s no doubt full of sugar and since when has drinking Lucozade in a bar ever been vaguely acceptable? That said, I’ve already had a night or two out (and in) with folk drinking and I coped heroically admirably with that. It would be comforting to be able to say, “Gosh, as a non-drinker, sitting with drinkers, well, they were just so awful and really made fools of themselves and I’m just so glad I don’t drink.” But I can’t and they didn’t. They looked lovely and normal and happy and full of beans.
Anyway, I’m not a Protestant (or anything else), so don’t think self-abuse is the wickedest thing on earth (or is that Catholics?). So I’m looking for alternative forms of abuse until I can get back on the booze. Smoking’s definitely stepped up a notch. I find narcotics of the illegal kind too dreary for words, so don’t suppose I’ll be tempted down that road. (It’s not because of the illegality I find them boring. I’ve just never seen the appeal majorly.) But, in a twist to the suggest-a-sport theme, can you now suggest a vice so that I don’t fade away into monasticism altogether? Crime would be dreary. And I’m sure I’d be hopeless at mugging folk. (Erm, excuse me, would you mind awfully if I stole your handbag? Hopeless.) (Reminded of slice-of-life vignette from former life. Poverty. Youth. Ex-boyfriend. Bank bounced two cheques for the massive total sum of 50 pounds a second before ex-boyfriend’s salary went in and charged him precisely 50 pounds for the privilege. He rang to suggest this was perhaps a touch ungentlemanly of them and might they reconsider. They wouldn’t. At which pint he said to bank person, “Well, I’m going to have to go out and mug old ladies now.” “Well, I hope you won’t have to do that, Mr. BiB’s-ex.” Nice exchange.) Perhaps I could become an oligarch and buy Middlesbrough FC. Your best abusive suggestions are eagerly awaited…