Some people have told me that they can’t make any sense of this blog.
Firstly, I can’t make much sense of it either. Secondly, to fully understand what’s going on, you need to start with the very first post.
The first post is called ‘Family’ and can be found in the month of February in the BLOG ARCHIVE section to the right. Read that and then read the next one above it. Continue doing this until you’ve either had enough or have reached the latest post…or you can go for a lucky dip approach and just click on any of the titles in the archive.
I walked into the kitchen. I was busted sideways with a hangover.
“Have you ever considered what colour margarine would be, if additives weren’t included?” asked the wife.
I was in no mood for her prattle: “Have you ever considered that your mother was raped and arse-fucked by a dog-like animal nine months before you were born?”
“It says here, that it would be grey.”
Three hours later, I sat in the pub trying to drink a large whisky.
“Gertie, where’s Colleen?”
“Colleen’s gone. Bhoppy’s back.”
“Thank God for that. It didn’t seem right talking to a guy wearing a dress.”
“Don’t thank God, eez, Bhoppy’s kicked the Lord into touch, too.”
“He’s not a religious transvestite, anymore?”
“Is he still Irish?”
“He’s thinking about that one. Is that one of your daughters that’s just come in?”
Without turning to look, I replied, “Nah, both of mine are abroad.”
She borrowed £100 to do some shopping and left her latest boyfriend, who she’d been destined to meet because a gipsy lady had told her she would, with me.
I looked at him. He seemed normal.
“So, who are you?” I asked.
“I’m Nathan, sir.”
“Yes, sir, but don’t hold that against me,” he jokingly said.
(I will point out at this stage that I have nothing against Americans whatsoever; whenever there’s a natural disaster in the world, they send ten thousand marines and five billion dollars to help the unfortunate victims. My country sends thirty tents and four boxes of tinned asparagus. But, I do have something against daughters’ boyfriends.)
“I would like to marry your daughter.”
“A clairvoyant said we’d marry each other.”
“I will treat her and keep her in the way she deserves.”
“Unless you own a cattle prod and a knuckle duster, I doubt that. She takes after her mother. And stop calling me sir. Everyone calls me eez.”
"It’s alright with you then?”
“For fuck’s sake, stop going on about it.”
He looked at me.
“Oh, alright then…what do you do for a living?”
“I’m a chemical physicist specialising in propulsion engineering.”
“What does that mean?”
“Well, at the moment I work for NASA designing the next generation of rocket propulsion units, but I’ve got four months off while the Government restructures project funding.”
In this country we have a thing called Guy Fawkes Night:
Every year, on the fifth of November, the public ignite explosive devices that are legally sold to all and sundry. It’s to celebrate Guy Fawkes’ attempt to destroy the country’s government by shoving a shit load of gunpowder under the House of Commons.
In the years since Guy Fawkes’ unsuccessful gunpowder plot, our government has survived numerous attempts of annihilation, but we never hold a Nazi Night, an IRA Night or an Al Qaeda Night. It’s all very bizarre.
The Dog and Donkey Firework Competition was established after the local authorities decided to ban public firework displays because too many spectators we being maimed.
My mates and I were pretty miffed at this wholly undemocratic deed and decided to hold our own display every year in the car park of the Dog and Donkey.
It’s the only night wives and girlfriends are welcomed at the pub (over the years, a rivalry has built up between the wives over which husband can provide the best firework).
Nathan and I had spent three months designing and building my firework and the big night had arrived.
By rigging the draw process, I was the last entrant of the night.
With the exception of Biffy’s firework, that had failed to go off properly and had merely made a fizzing sound, the previous entrants’ fireworks had been mightily impressive.
Bhoppy announced me as the last contestant.
I rolled a forty five gallon drum to the centre of the car park and, with the assistance of Barty, stood it upright.
I lit the fuse and ran to the edge of the car park.
I turned to the wife. “Tonight, sweetheart, you’re going to be proud of me. Wait for this one to go off. Every wife in town will be envious.”
Bhoppy flew over a wall, Biffy and his wife landed butt-first in a car windscreen, Blinky shot through a fence panel, Narky landed on top of his wife who was standing twenty yards away, Bluto ploughed head first into a very happy woman’s crotch, Barty rolled about in flames on the other side of the car park and the pub’s outside bottle store collapsed.
After a few seconds, we got to our feet. Nobody had any eyebrows.
Then, high in the air, the firework exploded.
Entire buildings swayed and windows shattered all over town. Emergency services arrived in minutes, television news crews arrived shortly after and nobody could hear properly for days after.
Nathan was sent back to America, we think, and nobody ever saw him again. The gipsy hadn’t seen that coming.
The wife and I didn’t communicate for three days. There was little point; neither of us knew sign language. But, on the fourth day she said:
“Nice firework, eez. Well done.”
The gipsy would have missed that one, too.