His secret is eating a breakfast of kelps
It’s bumpkin-headed human jet-ski Michael “Swimmy Boy” Phelps
He really is a swimmy boy.
In my first Olymblog, I would like to tell you all how much I like the Olympics. The type of much is not bloody much. Smarming BBC personality vacuums wander around a car park on the outskirts of open-sewer favelas, as their joyless countrypeople perform obscure tasks (the bloody omnium is it!?) in lycra while the four Brazilians that turned up to watch threaten to inject the judges with Zika if they don’t win the cockless doubles. I know how it’s meant to be spelled.
This is compounded by the fact that my normal stream of youtube thug videos has been interrupted by stroppy internet that won’t co-operate and won’t get any ice cream if it keeps behaving this way.
What’s a thug video I hear you crane your neck in and ask? Well I’m very glad you asked.
Pasty children taking swearing to nuclear levels and general unexpected intenseness.
The Olympics better watch out, because if I have to watch one more person rolling around on a bench with chalky feet I’m going to go over there and feed them all that seawater they have with the flesh-eating diseases. Yes that’s a real thing.
Oh apparently they just arrested the head of Olympics Ireland for hawking tickets. Marvellous. They’re making the World Cup look frigging moral and that’s just an excuse for a few grubby Swissmen to try and plant their seed in the local women while inhaling big wadgers of cash. I’m getting worked up.
Meg and I had an adventure last Sunday. A really depressing adventure.
We were walking home through a small laneway with all these cutsey English houses, named dumb things like Kettle House, Wysteria Cottage and Fig… Pudding. The laneway is about 100 metres and ends in a 90 degree angle leading to a harsher crueller world. In the corner is the biggest house of the lot, a little less sprucey goosey but basically white. Two rusting childcatcher vans sit right outside the front door with an unnervingly thin piece of twine draped across the 3 metre deep courtyard.
Why thank you Google. This is the gaff. You can almost hear the muffled voices of the Lindberg baby in the boot.
Despite having walked past the place about 100 times, on this particular day the idea of walking by without investigating couldn’t have been further from my mind. I bent up my little getaway pin and swung it over the twine followed by gam number two. Meaghan glared at my daring form as I shuffled up to the window and peered through the living room and into the backyard. It was filled with grass up to about two metres in height.
“Meg come over here and look at this”
Meg mumbled her reply but I was now very interested in the piles of old papers which were giving me a clue as to how long it had been since someone lived here. I did not recognise any of the brands and everything was coated in thick dust and grime. So a fair old while. I was wondering how long it had been since some over-privileged little inbreedling had inherited the house and immediately forgotten about it because he was auditioning for Made in Chelsea. Then I heard someone shout “BUP!”
Meg’s audio track faded in. “The window’s open. Someone’s in there!”
“BUP… BUP BUP!”
She turned and started marching like a POW in Manchuria up the path. With some amount of haste. Barely not running.
Meg would later tell me she could see something like this rushing towards the front door, through the filthy glass
Thinking I didn’t want to be right in front of whatever was making that noise when it burst forth into the August sun I got back on the other side of the twine passing the two rusting kidscoopers and started walking away after Meg. Slowly.
One of my many hard-learned life lessons is it rarely helps you to look guilty or fearful. Especially when you are indeed guilty and fear… let’s say fearish. I’m clearly too much of a toughie for actual fear.
I looked over my shoulder to see what had spooked us and it was an older man, about 60 or so, leaning out the front door topless and sporting a spidery beard. Perhaps he was the legendary 6th Spice Girl I thought, Spiderbeard Spice.
“Um I was just looking in the window there”
“Well why don’t you knock on the door if you’re gonna look in the window”
As this last sentence made no sense and I was speaking to a guy who lived on a throne of garbage I decided to raise my hand in a “my bad” fashion and started back off after Meg, occasionally glancing over my shoulder to check he wasn’t chasing me with a wicker basket filled with his turds.
Yes I can see the link is tenuous to this photo. No I do not care.
I continued to amble nervously along while Meg shouted encouraging words like “he’s at the f-ing door!” as she sprinted away from me and around the corner. As we continued to walk along the main road towards our own house, Meg kept twitching whenever a car approached as she assumed the guy had revved up one of his old paedo-mobiles and was going to chase us down to sacrifice us to his rubbish bride.
As much as it was fun to frighten Meg, it was a deeply grim experience realising that the fella was clearly living in miserable squalor. I mean, Meg might use the dry shampoo two days in a row the odd occasion and I could probably clear out some of the slacker pairs of underwear I have. Especially those ones that are shall we say, pre-Obama but lord save us (I was actually raised in Ireland, not that it often shows) this place was next-level awful.
Might look up whether there’s any council services I could send his way. Though they generally only concern themselves with stopping house building (would dilute local prices doncha know) and keeping an eye on local suspiciously foreign Remain voters.
Those handsome bastards.
In other news Meg cemented her claim as emotional assassin with the following exchange from last Monday.
“Um, I’m not sure that’s right Meg”
“Well I give plenty of wrong answers. Like when I said yes to marrying you.”
Squaloner of Leek