If you were a tiny tuft of hair, he would comb you,
It’s Jonah “mobile violence unit” Lomu
Aha, hello there. You look terrible. I’m negging you. Never heard of it? It’s a bit unpleasant. Insulting someone to lower their self-esteem to the point where they might be suggestable enough to touch your (in all likelihood) penis. Anyway, I’m doing it to you now as a kind of experiment. Please rate your increased physical attraction to me in the comments. You big… bollockses.
Myself and Meg went to Sandown racecourse this weekend as we had tired of the drudgery of simply burning our money. We went moneyball on the whole thing, reading form, checking their weights and then deciding whether we just liked their name a bit or REALLY liked their name. The main contenders were a few that had Mark in their name, but as it turns out this is a poor predictor of good horsiness and they turned out to be a shower of worthless nags, merely killing time before they are diverted en masse to the glue factory.
It was family day at the course so there was some obligatory face painting (I had requested a Chaplin but they clearly gave me a Hitler) someone in a Peppa Pig costume and a lounge singer butchering that poxy Frozen song once an hour. “Let her go, to practice mo” etc.
The races are a fantastic place for people watching as you have people dolled up to the nines, fascinators, cummerbunds and so on and then you have what Meg calls TPT. Trailer park trash. I am not the first to notice that the UK has serious issues with class hierarchy and being from outside such a system makes it extra bewildering, albeit mercifuly sidesteppable. Horse racing is a rare thing that all aspects of British society are keen on though for different reasons. For TPT it’s about the gambling and the boozing, for the Lord and Lady Fauntleroys it’s about exactly the same thing plus a bit of FOMO (fear of missing out) and desire to wear impractical and implausibly named items of clothing.
Back when we lived in the gritty Nawth in Manchester, we were “The Posh Couple,” I was always pushing Meg to explore where we lived and her occasional lack of enthusiasm was often shown to be justified. One day we wandered out from where we lived in the city centre out to Salford. The place looked like it had been bombed out to shit by a particularly vindictive airforce who had heard rumours that Salford had fondled it’s mothers bottom.
After being a bit unsettled by weird graffiti “We’re watching you” and “You’ll never get out alive” we decided to have a rest in the only pub (or anything) we’d come across. Standing up at the bar I noticed one guy muttering sweet insanities in my direction. He tried unsuccessfully to talk to me, I smiled politely and asked him to please repeat himself, his friend gave me the danger eyes and whispered to drunky, “naw leave it mate.” His friend slunk (slank?) away and he turned to me, “Are you the posh couple then?”
What the fuck does one say to that? I was recently out running and as I was walking back I ended up chatting to my dear Mater over the phone who was surprised that I was out running at 10pm and only moreso when I explained my normal time is midnight. She questioned the safety of this and I responded with the perhaps erroneous claim that “I am the toughest guy in Weybridge.” Maybe not but we’re for sure the closest to TPT these little pansies will ever live beside.
In other news I was explaining Gaelic Football to Meg, the semi finals are playing as I write a lot of this. Up the Kingdom and so on. I explained how unlike soccer, you have to get used to being scored on frequently, which is pretty draining emotionally. Meg’s response was “is it like going to a bar with your Mom?” I think this was meant to be a “yo momma” style bit of smack talk, but it just reminded me of the last time she went to a bar with Ingrid, my dear mother drank her under the table to the point of me drifting off to sleep that night to the soundtrack of Megs vomitous sobs. She also thought the coverage of the Gaelic Football was as Gaeilge (the Irish language). It was not, it was just being delivered through the heavy accent of this guy.
He’d be hunted by the townsfolk with pitchforks and torches if he lived anywhere else.
Kerry football also has something called The Gooch. Do not directly look at The Gooch. I might be trying some small review-type articles soon of things I’m keen on. Podcasts, Music etc. I’ll be trying to do them midweek. Let me know what you think by coming to write things behind my back to my face! Metaphorically. Meta-face-lickly.
The Toner of Gaeleek