Murdering hors d’oeurves like they’re Communists under Franco,
It’s posterboy for letting oneself go, Serge “time is a cruel mistress” Blanco
He made running around carrying ovals into an erotic danger-game. Now he looks like someone punched tiramisu.
Well there is really sod all that is dominating over here that can compete with the rugby. Pretty much everything anyone is doing is over the background sound/visual of sprinting meat-mountains merrily subjecting themselves to car-accident levels of damage like they would really rather be wheeled to their 40th birthdays.
It’s brilliant. I went to a meeting in town. The squawks of exhausted Japanese players getting trounced underfoot by angry Scots. I went to a media festival on Saturday. Italians getting pummeled by syrup-addled Canadians. Made a little sangidge. There are some worryingly large and white Africans savagely chasing some Pacific Islanders around looking like no one had told them it was no longer the 80’s. Rugby is a violent and beautful blanket draped over the hums and drums of softy South West life.
Sometimes the “beautiful” part is a bit further down the list of things that rugby is…
As I mentioned previously, Saturday, Meg and I joined a work compadre of mine to go to the Radio Times festival (think a swish English RTE Guide my Irish brethern). In Cormac McCarthy’s Blood Meridien (watch out for it in a Leekly review blog coming soonish) he describes war as the ultimate trade, awaiting it’s ultimate practitioner in man. Deep stuff. If the Radio Times was an eternal constant, then I suggest it was awaiting for it’s ultimate venue in Hampton Court. Hampton Court is one of several things that (if such a thing is indeed possible) too English. Like Downton Abbey and watching some lads in fancy jackets walk around in unison because the Queen dodged the reaper for another 365 consecutive days (though I’m starting to think she takes April off to hibernate in a coffin filled with formaldehyde and gets the corgis to electropaddle her out at the start of the Summer.)
So Hampton Court is filled with the kind of old dears that would normally be rattling around an Agatha Christie novel, getting accused of all kinds of nefarious doings by some snooty Belgian with moustache so twirly that he clearly bloody did it. One for the David Suchet fans there.
I spy with my little eye… a pile of corpses I made die. Stop faffing Christie and put the monster in the dock!
News just in: Christie is dead. Well done Mr Suchet <claps>
The economy of Hampton Court is mainly based on shop selling weird antiques like dolls with pink faces from hell and assorted coal scuttles. I have been raised to have a complete lack of respect of such things by my dear grandfather who would refer to such things as “Phil Dalls” or slightly less cryptically “useless fucking shit.” Apart from this cornerstone of their economy they also trade on the fact that they have a palace that was the stomping (and if we’re being honest humping) grounds of King Henry the 8th. The one with all the wives. The one who liked marrying people so much he decided to make up his own religion (Anglicanism) to keep right on banging through once the Pope had called time. He even topped a few of them because “something something secrets of the crown your younger sister looks pretty clean.”
Anyway such is the hold this old horn dog has on the town, that the bins of the shagshack that he stashed Anne Boleyn in has this outside it:
As with many such places around here, it’s objectively gorgeous and the event fit against the backdrop perfectly. Fish and chips like a wrinkly boogie board on some fried fluffy train sleepers, charmingly befuddled best-selling writers and an average attendee age of thirty thousand years. If Meg wasn’t there, 75. Meg is old. That’s my joke.
It was the first time they had put this event on and attendance was a little sparse, but the roster was pretty high-end with Doctor Who, Cillian Murphy and that Scouse lad that does the baking all presenting their credentials. Ya know. Shmiggy. That git. Unfortunately for the organisers the weather was so nice none of us could really support sitting in a tent for an hour so we sat outside drinking ourselves hilarious and stuffing our chortling faces with fried meats. It was some Famous Five level merriness. Without the worryingly domineering Uncle Quentin. Ain’t no way he was on the level.
While we sauntered about on Saturday I found out a good chum of mine, Brian, was about this weekend. He was coming down for the game and as luck would have it the friend of his that was meant to join him had a sudden fit of career-minded responsibility and pulled out allowing me to make it 2/2 for the Irish games so far. The game itself was in Wembley and the local pubs were a lot more professionally profiteering on their location than the Welsh last week. 5 pound pints of pre-poured piss? You bet your bippy! The game had a really good atmosphere with a world record crowd for a rugby game, mainly people like myself and Brian, young immigrants with half an eye on going home gathered together in the capital of the old enemy to cheer on the one thing everyone on our own island likes. To pointedly understate, it was rather nice.
In other news Meg got home from our little shopping trip to London today and saw she had 130 work emails and this soured her mood somewhat.
I made her some tea and was letting her know that I was now removing the bag, a situation which begat the following possibly stress fuelled exchange.
“Okay Meg, I’m debagging the tea.”
“I’ll be teabagging your d.”
“I’m not sure what that means or whether it is even physically possible.”
“I’m going to put my balls on your dong.”
130 is a pretty big number. Like 30,000. Meg is old. That’s my joke.
Boleyn-er of Leek