Wales, Boy friends, Metallurgy, Whales and Always Judge a Book by its Cover (Part 1)

Yesterday was an awful day.


Morning:

First job of the day was a visit to the loo. Having consumed several pints of real ale and a bowl of chilli the day before, it was always going to be a messy affair.

For the rest of the day you go about your business in the knowledge that you can’t merely sneak one out; squidgys, wettys and follow-throughs are inevitable. The need to fart means a visit to a toilet. The country in which I live only provides a public loo if the population of the area is in excess of three hundred thousand per square mile.

Lunchtime was spent listening to a young couple discussing, for hour after hour, a potential house purchase as they sat at the bar of my local and favoured alehouse.

Brutal as it may sound, I couldn’t give a shag about the dimensions of the property they intended to purchase or the frailty of the woman’s crippled and deranged mother, who would require a granny annexe the size of Rhode Island in order to see out another few drug-dependent months on this planet.


Afternoon:

On returning to the home where my children were born and raised, the good lady offered me a cup of tea. Lord, give me the strength to continue.

I poured myself a whisky and stared out the kitchen window, wondering in which genocide I had taken part prior to this existence, to deserve a life such as this.

A vaguely familiar car pulled up and I watched a creature get out of the passenger side.

“What the hell is that?” I asked the wife.

She walked to the window, looked and said, “that, you useless, drunken, poor excuse of a man is a modern-style car.”

I turned to look at the missus. For a moment, I felt compassion. Throughout her life she has been lacking a sense of humour. Sometimes I wonder how, after all these years, men can still talk to her. I have been both dutiful and tenacious in my efforts to instil at least one funny thought or comment in her brain.

I have spent many years trying to explain to her why one-liners are funny. The pausing of comedy DVDs and videos has become inevitable in my house as I repeatedly offer an explanation as to why the last scene watched was ball bustingly hilarious.

I turned back to the window, “I meant the thing that has just got out the car.”

“That is your daughter’s boyfriend and that is your daughter’s car,” she replied, moving away from the window.

I continued to look at the car and saw the driver get out. Again I turned to the wife and said, “I think you’re wrong. Look at the thing that’s just clambered from the driver’s side!”

She warily approached the window and whispered, “that’s your daughter.”

Yet again I looked at my darling wife. Was I mistaken? Had she developed a sense of humour after all?

The kitchen door opened and in walked…my daughter from Wales.

The last time I’d seen her she had hair extensions down to her backside, wouldn’t consider wearing anything that hadn’t cost at least the price of a decent second hand car and would lock herself in a room until a chipped fingernail had been repaired.

In front of me stood a shaven-headed gorgon from the landfill. And following her… Stig of the Dump (look it up on the internet).

She gave her mother a kiss, walked past me, went to the fridge and after a while said, “This is my boy friend, Moby.”

I felt a need to fart.

He had a spider’s web tattooed on the left side of his face and some form of hieroglyphics tattooed on the right side of his neck. There was more metalwork adorning his face than that of Robocop’s.

I felt tempted to add to his facial, metallurgic collection by ramming a screwdriver in his eye.

“Shall we eat?” Said the wife.

Being a decent and civil chap, I offered my hand to ‘Moby’ and mumbled, “Hello Moby, nice to meet you.”

With hooded eyelids and without shaking my hand he replied, “cool.”

“Okay, let’s eat,” I announced.

‘Moby’ is a vegetarian. Therefore, ‘Moby’ had a few issues with a beef stew.

“Moby,” I enquired, “what are you doing?”

“Well, like, washing the gravy off this piece of carrot.”

I watched ‘Moby’ hold his fork and wash a piece of carrot under the cold tap.

“Moby, why are you washing that piece of carrot?”

“It’s infected with meat juices…you know.”

As previously mentioned in this blog (why is it called a blog?) I am 66 years old and extremely grumpy. Grumpiness is just a side effect of being short tempered.

Enduring the glares of both daughter and wife, I fought the urge to drag the cretin known as ‘Moby’ outside and kick him up and down the road like the piece of shit he appeared to be, and tried another approach, “why the name Moby? Real name Richard, yes? … Richard…Dick…Moby Dick, right?”

“No. Moby’s my name.”

“Jeez, your parents must have been shooting something between their toes at the time,” I laughingly replied. “Honestly, what’s your real name?”

“Honestly, it’s Moby. Moby Mullet.”

I’d had a few whiskies, “oh, knob off. Just tell me your name. It can’t be that bad.”

He showed me his student pass. His name was Moby Mullet.

Moby felt the need to fart…and did so. He then muttered something and shuffled off to the loo. Squidgy or follow through? I wondered.

“Go easy on him, Dad. He’s not been feeling too well lately. He might be anaemic.”

I stood up, “Anaemic? The only way you’d get more iron in his body would be to shove a scaffold tube up his arse. The guy’s got more iron in his body than X-Men’s Wolverine!”

The wife chipped in, “Well at least offer him a drink or something!”

“Can’t. I used the last of the ‘3in1’ on your bike chain.”

“Father, really! He’s not all bad, you know!”

“True,” I replied, ”I dare say he’s very handy if you run out of nails on a Bank Holiday. Is it two or three in his left ear?”

“You miserable, drunken old sod!” screamed the wife.

“Bloody hell, woman! Look at him! The guy’s a moron! What do you think his parents gave him to play with when he was a kid? A train set? More likely a pop riveter and a fucking staple gun!”

“Actually, dad, his parents are dead.”

“Oh. Er, what happened?”

“OD.”

“Sorry? OD?…as in Overdose? Jesus H Christ! I bet he’s ramming a hypodermic up his butt as we speak! My daughter’s sleeping with a smackhead-spawned cyborg! Can you get chain mail condoms? He’s probably got half the Screw Fix range hanging off his dick!”

I didn’t stand a chance. The daughter attacked from the left and the wife stuck one in from the right.

The wife had me in a bear hug and the girl was hanging off my neck.

“Hey, that’s, like, nice to see. Family cuddle time. Cool,” said Moby from the doorway.

To maintain the image, my daughter kissed me on the cheek and, out of view, pinched the skin at the back of my upper arm (try it some time, it hurts like hell).

I returned to the table and gingerly sat down, hoping that my testicles would rearrange themselves naturally, “what’s for dessert, then?”


To be continued….