Pound for Pound

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 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.



Eventually, not eating catches up with you. I needed breakfast.


The missus walked in: “you’re eating?”

“Thought I’d give it a go.”

“And you’ve cooked it yourself?”

“Yep. Having spent £23,000.00 on a new kitchen three years ago, I thought I’d see if everything worked. You were never going to get round to doing it.”

She sat down with a bowl of bran. “So, what has Chef eez cooked for himself?”

“Good Lord! Unless I’m fortunate enough to see your death, I really do think you’ll have a sense of humour within the next decade or so. I’ve cooked crinkle-cut chips served with a rather tasty dip.”

“What’s in the dip?”

“Garlic and lard.”

“You can’t eat lard!”

“I think I can.”

“You know what I mean. It’s bad for you. It’s not proper, healthy food.”

“Since when have you given a fuck about my health?”

“I’ve always cared about your health!”

“Bullshit!” I said, throwing a crinkle-cut chip at her, “Now, stick that on your shoulder, drag the pole from your arse and see if you can knock it off. You’ve never cared about me. As for eating properly, that’s only going to happen if you can overcome the stove phobia you appear to have developed since we got married.”

As she looked at me wide eyed, I continued: “Why did I end up with you? Every other member of your family weighs more than an asteroid, wears out a kitchen in six months and maintains the stability of the restaurant economy in the region. I can’t think of any of them that haven’t headlined a woman’s magazine! Why are you thin?”

“I’m not thin.”

“Compared to the others you’re thin! You’re just muscle and sinew! You need to cook more and eat more. And if you didn’t burn so many calories beating me up every week, you’d put on some weight and I’d spend less time playing poker with the nurses in A&E!”

“I’m happy with the amount I eat…and I’ve never been comfortable with cooking.”

“Can’t you at least try it?”

“Well, I once made a rice pudding at school, but other than that, it’s really just the jams and stuff that I make for the Women’s Institute. It’s all a bit daunting really.”

It was another of those rare moments when I almost felt sorry for her.

I went to a cupboard, grabbed a tin of soup, picked up the tin opener and placed them in front of her.

She picked up the tin opener. She fiddled about with it for a minute or so and said, “it’s a tin opener.”

“See if you can use it,” I suggested.

Still holding the tin opener, she picked up the tin of soup. She looked at the tin opener in one hand, looked at the tin of soup in the other and then smiled.


The Campbell’s Cream of Mushroom hit me edge-first on the bridge of my nose.

Through tears, I saw her walk towards me.

She clamped the tin opener on the top of my ear (the bit that curls over and has hairs sprouting from it when you’re older than thirty nine) and dragged me outside.

“What are you doing? You’ve busted my nose and pierced my ear, what more do you want? What’s your problem?” I asked, as I was pulled along the street.

“How dare you ask me that? I’ve put up with your drinking and gambling for over forty years. You’ve humiliated me and been an embarrassment to me from the moment I met you!”

“For fuck’s sake, I’m a man! What did you expect from me?

She stabbed me in the thigh and said, “See? I know where the cutlery drawer is!”

“That really hurt! I think you’ve caught an artery this time. I’ve got a fucking fish knife sticking out my leg!” I shouted.

“Stop whining.”

“I could be dying here.”

A fork entered my shoulder.

“Right!” I told the missus, “I’ve had enough! In all these years I’ve never hit you, not properly anyway, but now you’ve pushed me too far! You’re having it!”


There’s nothing you can do about them; they’re there, and that’s it. If Hitler had told his army to aim at the enemy’s bollocks, he would have won. Instead of trying to blitz the Londoners’ homes, he should have tried to blitz their spuds.

If I ever meet God, I’ll ask her (yes, her) why she put them on the outside. Women have their ovaries on the inside. It’s totally unfair. In fact, it’s more than unfair; it’s punitive.


I rolled about in pain (what else can you do when you’ve taken a whack in the knacks? You’re finished).

A woman came from her house, said hello to my wife and asked what was attached to the tin opener.

“That’s my husband.”

The woman looked down at me and said, “I’ve got one of those.”


Still looking down at me, the woman said, “but at least your one owns the Dog and Donkey. My one owns fuck all.”



To be continued.