Well I should be doing some proper writing for The View from Here this evening while the gentlemen of the house are watching Barcelona v Tottenham (which of course means absolute joy for a man and absolute boredom for a woman.)
Why oh why does the football season have to last soooo000000 long? It is bad enough having to endure 22 grown men kicking a ball around a field all year but us ladies also have to put up with Gary Linekar masquerading as a TV presenter and making insightful comments like "That was a good pass" or " He saved that well." Excellent. Truly excellent.
Hmm... I seem to remember Gary saying years ago that he didn't do a lot of headers because of the potential damage to the brain. Now I know why.... when you've only got a few brain cells it's a good idea to preserve them. Oh well at least he's pleasant to look at.
Hmm... well anyway I think Gary said that. On the other hand maybe he didn't.
Perhaps I should point out that I've consumed some rather nice alcohol and some chocolate this evening. This means I am not responsible for spelling mistakes, grammatical errors or indeed anything that maybe considered vaguely slanderous.
Hmm... maybe I should say that the lovely Gary is actually extremely knowledgeable about balls, even though he no longer plays with them. Indeed, he also talks balls very well. Like most men. (Except, of course, the discerning male readers of this site who are obviously extremely clever, witty, good looking and super cool dudes)
Right, where was I on this drunken ramble?
Um.... well what do you think of my new page design? Do you like my legs? Do you know, it took me absolutely ages to find those shoes and photograph my legs at that angle.
The things I suffer for my art. Ho hum. In fact, I once also suffered a boyfriend who modelled himself on Bryan Ferry... but God is that a loooong story. All I can say is that I hope he's graduated to Head "n" Shoulders now. Of course, I wasn't really suffering for art then - I was just suffering. That's what happens when your fella grows a moustache, buys a dirty raincoat and mimes Slave to Love in the mirror.
Of course then I married the Good Mr T. Little did I know that he would turn out to model himself on Mrs Beeton.
Still, you can't win 'em all. Although once would be good. Just one big win on the lottery. That's all I'm asking! I'm not greedy; just one teensy weensy win of about 10 million bucks would do. I mean that's not asking much is it? And I promise to give loads away to charity. In fact I'd probably set up my own charity for deprived housewives. Maybe I could sell condiments like Paul Newman? Mrs T's Mayo has a nice ring to it. Although, come to think of it, Mrs T's Tantalizing Truffles has an even better ring to it. Maybe I could become a charitable chocolatier and go around dispensing chocolate to the poor and needy?
Gez, that wine's taking effect. Still, when I say I've got a headache at least it'll be genuine; I'm just absolutely no good at lying. In fact when Mr T noticed the green paint on the back of my car do you think I lied? Do you think I told him someone reversed into me or that my car had been attacked by a horde of marauding 3 year olds wielding green wax crayons? No, no, no! I did what any sensible woman does.
I feigned deafness.
And when the question was repeated I put on that look that says " I have no idea what you are talking about" and diverted the subject onto a male topic. Football.
Excellent subversive tactics; as you can see I neither confirmed or denied that my car was in an altercation with an abysmally parked green gate. Anyway, some people are so selfish leaving their gates hanging around just where they like. There ought to be a law against it.
Right, time to crash out.
And no one split on me about the boyfriend thing. Ta. I don't want to get in trouble.
Ps No one mention the gate thing either.
It's the early hours of the morning, and I have had a large gin... Late-night alcohol is always a good recipe for writing gibberish. And...
I've been practising my haikus, which you may recall, I'm not particularly good at. However, I wanted to address the woke issue in a...
Well. It’s about time I wrote another post; I’m sure you must all think I’m a lazy good for nothing housewife who sits nibbling chocolate ch...
There was a buffoon called Johnson Who thought he was Charles Bronson But he fucked-up Brexit So attempted to exit Dressed as a wo...