I suppose Christmas started 8 days ago for me. It started with the end-of-year records manager’s meal in a boozah near London bridge. The meal was ok, a bit dry, but the booze flowed well enough; so much in fact that I was in danger of ending up in a gay bar with my gay colleagues, one of which used to be a production assistant for X Factor!
So, making my excuses I left them to it and made it into work at a reasonable hour the next morning. 3 hours later I was making my way home, for once not having a xmas drink with my so-called mates who were either otherwise engaged, abroad or just apathetic.
Christmas eve day we drove to the turn-off’s brothers, first stopping off at a garden centre to visit a Christmas wonderland and Santa’s grotto, which, to be fair, was pretty good and the smashers seemed to love. Then we had lunch at her brothers and 3-4 hours later dinner. Too much food, not enough booze, well, any in my case as I was driving and too long a period sitting about like chickens waiting to be fed, then re-fed to make the day enjoyable but at least we managed to get ourselves home almost straight after dinner for our Christmas eve preparations.
Christmas day, presents opened at 7am or something, I got a George Michael CD, a mini fridge, a dressing gown, a book & a wind-up torch??. Then, another hour and a half at her mums before a drive to my sisters for lunch/dinner with my pissed up father and my sisters’ brood. A nice enough lunch, plenty of booze and drive home for Dr Who...which I miss because I fall asleep hammered!
Friday, December 29, 2006
Wednesday, December 27, 2006
Practical demo
Christmas morning 2006.
Me: Are you awake?
Missus: Uh? Whoa…yeah..
Me: Can I show you something?
Missus: Yeah, what…
Me: I got some toast here, on this plate is toast gone cold then buttered. On this plate is toast buttered straight after popping out of the toaster..see how..
Misus: Oh for fusks sake Steve! I KNOW how to make toast for Christ sake!
Me: Well, you did say I could show you how to do it yesterday…and I thought…I would…
Missus: Oh fuck off!
24 hours earlier…
I don’t wanna keep banging on about my toast and the way the turn-off serves it up to me, but I just gotta, one more time. So, the other morning, xmas eve, up comes the toast for breakfast in bed, and as usual, it’s cold and smeared with butter and marmite in a congealed sort of way, totally unappetising and I just had to have a moan at her. I had to.
Well, she says, maybe you can show me how to make toast tomorrow morning when it’s your turn to make the breakfast-in-bed then!
Now, I think she meant to be, what’s the word? Sarcastic! That’s it, yeah, she was being sarcastic, that’s right, but I chose to take her literally instead, sometimes, to wind her up, I need to.
The next morning I pop a slice of bread into the toaster, go for a dump, brush my teeth, make the smahers their breakfast, return to the cold toast and butter and marmite it. Then I pop another slice of bread in, stand by the toaster and the second the toast pops up, butter and marmite it. I stand back and review my work, sure enough, one slice is a cold congealed piece of shit while the other is wonderfully melted and deliciously fused combination of butter, marmite and warm toast. Perfect. I take my examples up stairs, hoping that my practical demonstration will be an eye opening experience, she’d suddenly get it, throw her arms around me, kiss me and say thank-you Steve, thank-you for showing me the way…So, with a big grin on my face, I push open the door and…well…you know the rest….
Me: Are you awake?
Missus: Uh? Whoa…yeah..
Me: Can I show you something?
Missus: Yeah, what…
Me: I got some toast here, on this plate is toast gone cold then buttered. On this plate is toast buttered straight after popping out of the toaster..see how..
Misus: Oh for fusks sake Steve! I KNOW how to make toast for Christ sake!
Me: Well, you did say I could show you how to do it yesterday…and I thought…I would…
Missus: Oh fuck off!
24 hours earlier…
I don’t wanna keep banging on about my toast and the way the turn-off serves it up to me, but I just gotta, one more time. So, the other morning, xmas eve, up comes the toast for breakfast in bed, and as usual, it’s cold and smeared with butter and marmite in a congealed sort of way, totally unappetising and I just had to have a moan at her. I had to.
Well, she says, maybe you can show me how to make toast tomorrow morning when it’s your turn to make the breakfast-in-bed then!
Now, I think she meant to be, what’s the word? Sarcastic! That’s it, yeah, she was being sarcastic, that’s right, but I chose to take her literally instead, sometimes, to wind her up, I need to.
The next morning I pop a slice of bread into the toaster, go for a dump, brush my teeth, make the smahers their breakfast, return to the cold toast and butter and marmite it. Then I pop another slice of bread in, stand by the toaster and the second the toast pops up, butter and marmite it. I stand back and review my work, sure enough, one slice is a cold congealed piece of shit while the other is wonderfully melted and deliciously fused combination of butter, marmite and warm toast. Perfect. I take my examples up stairs, hoping that my practical demonstration will be an eye opening experience, she’d suddenly get it, throw her arms around me, kiss me and say thank-you Steve, thank-you for showing me the way…So, with a big grin on my face, I push open the door and…well…you know the rest….
Sprouts
We’re all driving back from the Toys R Us new years sale; I’m driving, staring out at the bleak winter countryside, it’s gloomy and cold and no one is talking.
I sigh a little because I’m reminded of the Spitting Image sketch with Norma and John Major when he says the peas they are eating are very nice dear and the clock in the hall ticks loudly in the background as they resume their silent meal in a desolate and loveless marriage.
I’m having the sprouts. She said.
I sighed again and I turned my face away from her and continued driving in silence for the rest of the journey home.
What do you want with your roast beef tonight, peas or carrots?She asks
I sigh a little because I’m reminded of the Spitting Image sketch with Norma and John Major when he says the peas they are eating are very nice dear and the clock in the hall ticks loudly in the background as they resume their silent meal in a desolate and loveless marriage.
I’ll have peas, but did you know the Roman’s thought carrots had aphrodisiac properties? So, you’ll have the carrots!I quipped and grinned at her with a glint in my eye.
I’m having the sprouts. She said.
I sighed again and I turned my face away from her and continued driving in silence for the rest of the journey home.
Monday, December 04, 2006
Last ever jolly foreign weekend
Last day and to be honest it couldn’t come quick enough. After breakfast we split up again, Dave’s brother opting for his seventh wander around town, while we headed up to the Russian war memorial, that towers over the town. It wasn’t that we really wanted to see the thing close up, more that we needed to waste some time before our flight by not sitting in a boozah. By now we were all suffering with kidney and liver damage and our usual rosy and inviting lips, dried and peeling. Having walked up this hill and seeing the memorial close up we quickly decided that, in fact, a boozah would be better, so headed into the nearest one, which turned out to be a decent enough pub, albeit empty one.
After 3-4 beers we caught the bus to the airport, had another couple of beers, agreed that we’d never discuss this holiday to anyone or among ourselves ever again, and boarded the plane. The missus picked me up and sped me away from my so-called mates without me having had the opportunity to even say good riddance, I mean goodbye.
And that was that, my last ever jolly foreign weekend with my so-called mates ever.
After 3-4 beers we caught the bus to the airport, had another couple of beers, agreed that we’d never discuss this holiday to anyone or among ourselves ever again, and boarded the plane. The missus picked me up and sped me away from my so-called mates without me having had the opportunity to even say good riddance, I mean goodbye.
And that was that, my last ever jolly foreign weekend with my so-called mates ever.
It's a bloody circus!
After the meal we head to a salsa and cocktail bar; again, the sleeper does what he does best and falls asleep. For a hilarious joke I edge a candle, ever so slowly, nearer and nearer to him until it’s right under his hairy tash. We’re all laughing as the hairs on his arm begin to burn but he wakes with a start before his tash catches fire, more’s the pity. Dave, the wine connoisseur, re-inacts the whole event immediately afterwards, throwing his arms up and behind him, imitating poor Nick but in doing so, crashes his clumsy great paws into a waitress who’s carrying a full tray of cocktails. I watch as she struggles not to let the beers topple over, trying to disentangle Dave’s hands from the glasses, Dave, oblivious as usual to events surrounding him, carries on, thinking we’re all laughing with him, instead of at him and at antics that are unfolding behind him, as predictably, one after another cocktail crashes to the floor or over customers.
Having made another Slovak friend, we decide to move on, waking Nick up again, to the Circus bar where we’re told strippers are to be found on Saturday nights. So, we find the place, pay a fee to get in, even though it says it’s free on the tickets we have from the hotel and find a seat. Two minutes later, Dave’s brother stands up and announces he’s off home and leaves in a marked manner. And who could blame him as frankly, the place is a shithole, crowded to fuck with wannabe life’s bright young things, all pretending an a not-very-convincing Slovakian way that they are out to have a good time, throwing themselves about on the dance floor in front of 3 middle aged, bald and grey haired, fat men. And me.
Plan, B or is it D? we move on, not having waited for the stripper, to the bar I found myself in the previous evening. By now, we’d given up, we just wanted to plonk down somewhere and see a pair of tits. I know, what does that say about us? Or society come to that, but there you have it. For about £20 the three of us, lined up on some seats at the back of the club, while this bird crashed about on top of use for the duration of a song. Bruised nuts and laughing at her big clumsy attempts at a lap dance, we head home, dejected.
Having made another Slovak friend, we decide to move on, waking Nick up again, to the Circus bar where we’re told strippers are to be found on Saturday nights. So, we find the place, pay a fee to get in, even though it says it’s free on the tickets we have from the hotel and find a seat. Two minutes later, Dave’s brother stands up and announces he’s off home and leaves in a marked manner. And who could blame him as frankly, the place is a shithole, crowded to fuck with wannabe life’s bright young things, all pretending an a not-very-convincing Slovakian way that they are out to have a good time, throwing themselves about on the dance floor in front of 3 middle aged, bald and grey haired, fat men. And me.
Plan, B or is it D? we move on, not having waited for the stripper, to the bar I found myself in the previous evening. By now, we’d given up, we just wanted to plonk down somewhere and see a pair of tits. I know, what does that say about us? Or society come to that, but there you have it. For about £20 the three of us, lined up on some seats at the back of the club, while this bird crashed about on top of use for the duration of a song. Bruised nuts and laughing at her big clumsy attempts at a lap dance, we head home, dejected.
Sideways
So, I’m outside thinking, where next then?…Bratislava is my lobster, I have £2000kr burning a hole in my wallet, I’m young and foolish. And pished. And I just don’t bloody care anymore. So I headed for the nearest strip club!
Now, I know I said Bratislava is shite for stag do’s and it is, but there are one or two venues for the discerning gentleman to visit if desperate and believe me, I was. So, a couple of quid to get in, another couple for a bottle of beer and bob was my uncle for a couple of hours that night. I crept home later that night, slipped into my bed and silently drifted off to sleep, anticipating another eventful day that lay only hours away…
Saturday: Up with the larks I was, showered and out for the hotel’s famous all-you-can-eat breakfast. Recriminations set aside as we discussed our separate evenings and plans drawn up for rendezvous later that day as one s-called mate decided he’d really like to walk to a tv tower 7 miles away while the rest decided not to and wander around town instead. So, we visited the spaceship tower on the bridge over the Danube, had a beer at the top, then sub-divided again as two set off for the castle while I went to a posh hotel for a nice sauna.
We met at the hotel bar later, basically, drank beer, or cola in one case, until dinner. I’ll say one thing for the Slovak nation, hospitality isn’t one of their inherent gifts; at no point during our stay did I ever feel welcomed. A case in point was our restaurant of that evening, naturally another steak house, with English menu’s but with non-English speaking staff who threw, what looked like, right strops every time we tried to make contact with one of them to order food, or a beer, or ask where the bogs were. When my steak arrived still breathing I asked if I could have the steak I actually ordered, medium and oh by-the-way, I also ordered French fries, which had failed to turn up, and my god the dirty looks and hassle I got was unbelievable.
Half way through the meal one so-called mate, Dave, decided he’d tell us why Sideways, the film, could only really be appreciated by wine connoisseurs like him and that the only reason I found it an ok film was because of my wine ignorance. I thanked him, of course, for setting me straight and asked him to go on and list all the times he’d ever been to Austria, no wait, I didn’t ask him, he just volunteered that information, counting up the times, the dates, the destinations, with his eyes squinted in deep thought as mine were drooping and my mates were rolling. Interestingly, even when we asked him to stop as we found silence preferable, he kept on going. Drink up Nick, let’s move on.
Now, I know I said Bratislava is shite for stag do’s and it is, but there are one or two venues for the discerning gentleman to visit if desperate and believe me, I was. So, a couple of quid to get in, another couple for a bottle of beer and bob was my uncle for a couple of hours that night. I crept home later that night, slipped into my bed and silently drifted off to sleep, anticipating another eventful day that lay only hours away…
Saturday: Up with the larks I was, showered and out for the hotel’s famous all-you-can-eat breakfast. Recriminations set aside as we discussed our separate evenings and plans drawn up for rendezvous later that day as one s-called mate decided he’d really like to walk to a tv tower 7 miles away while the rest decided not to and wander around town instead. So, we visited the spaceship tower on the bridge over the Danube, had a beer at the top, then sub-divided again as two set off for the castle while I went to a posh hotel for a nice sauna.
We met at the hotel bar later, basically, drank beer, or cola in one case, until dinner. I’ll say one thing for the Slovak nation, hospitality isn’t one of their inherent gifts; at no point during our stay did I ever feel welcomed. A case in point was our restaurant of that evening, naturally another steak house, with English menu’s but with non-English speaking staff who threw, what looked like, right strops every time we tried to make contact with one of them to order food, or a beer, or ask where the bogs were. When my steak arrived still breathing I asked if I could have the steak I actually ordered, medium and oh by-the-way, I also ordered French fries, which had failed to turn up, and my god the dirty looks and hassle I got was unbelievable.
Half way through the meal one so-called mate, Dave, decided he’d tell us why Sideways, the film, could only really be appreciated by wine connoisseurs like him and that the only reason I found it an ok film was because of my wine ignorance. I thanked him, of course, for setting me straight and asked him to go on and list all the times he’d ever been to Austria, no wait, I didn’t ask him, he just volunteered that information, counting up the times, the dates, the destinations, with his eyes squinted in deep thought as mine were drooping and my mates were rolling. Interestingly, even when we asked him to stop as we found silence preferable, he kept on going. Drink up Nick, let’s move on.
You can keep yir Bratislava
I’m telling you mate I’d rather ‘ave a pinta Courage Bets down Margate in the rain…
Well….I would…
Hmmm….....where to start....................where to start.....................
OK, I reckon I should start broad and work my way in, seems a good enough option to me, so then..........broad........well, how about this:
IF you have a stag agenda, DO NOT go to Bratislava because you WILL BE disappointed. How’s that for starters? Actually even if you only have stag leanings, the same rule applies. Not that me and my so-called mates had any aspirational leanings what-so-ever you understand, I’m just saying like, that’s all.
Right, move in with some details, so we met up ok at the airport, compared taxi fairs and for some reason, that is beyond me, a cab ride from Walthamstow, London, is cheaper than a cab ride from Ware, i.e. right next bloody door to Stanstead airport. Note to self, never use local cab firm again.
Once landed we trekked across town to our 1970’s communist style block they laughingly still call a hotel. Then we headed out of town again, over the river Danube, through a park to the shopping centre to the local swimming baths. Then, out into the cold and dark again for dinner and a few beers in town, Irish pub, naturally. Dinner was ok, usual so-called mates type of grub, steak and wine all served up by a stunning blond waitress, who fancied me.
This was, by now, all too much for one so-called mate, who decided it was ok to like, just crash out at the pub table and fall into a blissful sleep, right in front of his mates. Not that he was contributing to the conversation much when he was awake like, but still…how rude!
By 10pm the so-called mates, who weren’t asleep, were making dangerous noises about going back to the hotel. Having reminded them that A: they were on fucking holiday and B: They weren’t old fucking men, yet. I stormed out of the bar we were in, the sleeper, briefly looking up to see what all the commotion was about, and headed into the night!!!
Well….I would…
Hmmm….....where to start....................where to start.....................
OK, I reckon I should start broad and work my way in, seems a good enough option to me, so then..........broad........well, how about this:
IF you have a stag agenda, DO NOT go to Bratislava because you WILL BE disappointed. How’s that for starters? Actually even if you only have stag leanings, the same rule applies. Not that me and my so-called mates had any aspirational leanings what-so-ever you understand, I’m just saying like, that’s all.
Right, move in with some details, so we met up ok at the airport, compared taxi fairs and for some reason, that is beyond me, a cab ride from Walthamstow, London, is cheaper than a cab ride from Ware, i.e. right next bloody door to Stanstead airport. Note to self, never use local cab firm again.
Once landed we trekked across town to our 1970’s communist style block they laughingly still call a hotel. Then we headed out of town again, over the river Danube, through a park to the shopping centre to the local swimming baths. Then, out into the cold and dark again for dinner and a few beers in town, Irish pub, naturally. Dinner was ok, usual so-called mates type of grub, steak and wine all served up by a stunning blond waitress, who fancied me.
This was, by now, all too much for one so-called mate, who decided it was ok to like, just crash out at the pub table and fall into a blissful sleep, right in front of his mates. Not that he was contributing to the conversation much when he was awake like, but still…how rude!
By 10pm the so-called mates, who weren’t asleep, were making dangerous noises about going back to the hotel. Having reminded them that A: they were on fucking holiday and B: They weren’t old fucking men, yet. I stormed out of the bar we were in, the sleeper, briefly looking up to see what all the commotion was about, and headed into the night!!!
