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Moan November 15, 2006

Posted by BiB in Uncategorized.
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Gosh, can’t times be hard? I don’t mean I’m living through the blitz, or a blockade, or have been taken hostage or don’t have enough to eat and will be happy if I get a bit of tongue on my ration card this month. No, just modern hard. Sort of easy hard. Still, good enough reason for a bit of a moan. 

Now I’m a great believer in the blame game, so let’s look for some scapegoats, shall we? Well, November deserves the death penalty – at least – for a start. I’ve done my November moan before, but could there be any ghastlier month? It’s ugly. The weather’s cack. Not even properly cold. Just cack. And guaranteed to make you and everyone in your environs sniff till December 1st. I’m foghorning away with the best of them and the Russian is also a great believer in making the most out of an illness. It’s all wailing and noises of such drama that I have to dash next door to check that the latest production isn’t a death rattle. “Darling, what was that incredibly loud and spine-chilling noise?” “Oh, I just sneeff.” And then he sniffs, to prove his point, and then gives a tuberculotic cough, to prove it again. I’ve got aches and pains that a 36-year-old, by rights, shouldn’t have. I might see if my posh insurance will cover me a Christmas prezzie of a hip, knee and shoulder replacement. 

And don’t even talk to me about wanking technology. And about wanking blogger. For some days, I have been battling to be allowed to use my own wireless connection – brand new. A faggot above a load, if you ask me, though I may be about to get addicted – and battling for another equal number of days, at least, to try to get in touch with blogger. How I loathe companies who do their best to hide their contact details from you – yes, I mean you too, Amazon – having instructed you to get in touch in the first place. But blow that for a caper. We can soldier on regardless. Effing and blinding all the while that blogger and all its employees deserve eternal misery and damnation. 

But, darlings, what’s really put me to shame, and made me have a bit of a moan, with the only possible scapegoat being myself, is being outdone by my mother. I telephoned, filially, this very evening and we did our regular rundown of family gossip. I gave her my non-news. She gave me hers. I said I’d probably be boycotting Christmas this year. She said she’d harangue me till I caved in… “And have you e-mailed J_ for me to say how happy I am that she’s had a baby?” “Oh god, I can’t remember,” I confessed. “If you had a computer, you could, of course, e-mail her yourself.” “Oh, I don’t want to get involved in all that.” “You could still watch Emmerdale,” I put in, by way of compensation. “And Eastenders. And Home and Away.” … “Do you know, I was in the gym last week and there were three TVs showing three different channels.” “The gym?” “Yes, I go about once a week,” explained my mother. Talk about secret lives. I thought the omnibus editions were as exciting as my mother’s life got. And now I know she’s probably hanging out with more muscly queens than I am. 

Wake me up in May.

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Comments»

1. Daggi - November 16, 2006

It seems that most people’s parents secretly have gym membership cards, even if they are issued by the local council. Can you imagine it, 3 quid for a year’s membership which gives you 80% off admission (admission being around 5 quid a go)! I suppose the retired have to queue up somewhere once they’ve got no post office to hang around outside, and a local authority-run leisure centre with rowing maching and weights will do the trick. Not entirely sure what the point is of getting a bus there and back, only to spend 2 hours on a tread mill. “It’d take that long to walk there and back.” “Don’t you understand, I’ve got my bus pass now, it’d be a waste not to use it. And my gym membership card.”

2. BiB - November 16, 2006

Daggi, you have understood my mother’s logic perfectly. She does indeed go for the treadmill, which seems odd when all she ever did was walk anyway. But still, a bit of an event for her. She might have a 30-year-old boyfriend that I can try to steal off her next time we meet.

3. Daggo - November 16, 2006

I did suggest that my father had a ‘secret lady friend’ (unlikely though), and all this treadmill stuff was just a easy cover-up story. He just looked bewildered and went on again about him having his bus pass. Whatever happened to “television’s the only pleasure I’ve got”, eh? Oh yes, it went digital. Then again, even if it was once “the best in the world”, British television always was shite.

I watched an entire episode of Love thy neighbour on youtube the other week, and then explained the plot to my own lady friend.

“So it was about two couples who both wanted to buy some bedroom furniture and got up to all sorts of mischief trying to get hold of it, most of which inclued the word ‘nignog’, apart from those which led the very camp furniture salesman to imply the two husbands were actually gay and wanted to buy the bed for some serious fucking; and some long discussion about saving enough money for a pair of tights through buying 28 cans of pilchards, each reduced by 2 1/2 pence. And that was meant to be funny.” “Right.”

I’m sure the playgrounds of the mid-1970s were full of kids “acting out” their favourite bits. Mainly the ones involved comparing blacks to apes and the words “sambo” and “chalky”.

Actually, I was searching for “Curry and Chips”, but nobody seems to have found a reel-to-reel recording of it in their loft yet.

4. pleite - November 18, 2006

Curry and Chips? Whassat? And was your lady friend rightly bemused by the British sense of humour of which we are so rightly proud? (Unless she’s a Britess herself, of course.) That show really is the oddest thing. Or was it clever in some way that I haven’t yet understood?


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