Thursday, July 03, 2003

Sick, Sober and Sorry

Another day over, another day closer to two weeks off. I didn't think I was going to last all day, I reckon I did a total of an hour's work (as long as I get paid for seven-and-a-half I don't care). Its hard to get motivated in these expecting days, all I have is my wit and imagination to see me through the days (I think I'm doomed then!).

I had a few bevvies last night, but I was drinking like a budgie all night. I don't see that as a responsible act, being as it was, a week night. Oh no, I see it as a wasted opportunity. I should have got trolleyed. No excuses, I've let you all down, I'm so very sorry. I did stay away from the kebab house though. Mind you, having runny faeces may have made my day more exciting, the thrill of the last-minute toilet dash. The 'will I-won't I make it' factor would have been the most welcome of entertainments.

I'm going to get all topical on your asses now (donkeys just don't seem to stay out my witterings for too long do they?). I'm as pleased as a clichéd alcoholic mix that 'Tiger' Tim has been knocked out of Wimbledon. I can't stand tennis. It's a smug, sterile, mono-cultural, quasi-fascist, casually racist, elitist, snob-ridden, blazer-buggered, apartheid-crippled disaster area of a sport. I also hate the 'Henmaniacs'. These are a frightfully irrelevant bunch of people who think the tennis season lasts two weeks in July, and comes with complimentory Pimms and Union Jack hat. They probably think Roland Garros is designer tennis-wear. And Tim himself, he's just the sort of barratt home-counties mummy's boy loser who represents everything bad about this country.

He's also called Tim, and herein lies my other problem with him. Nobody called Tim has ever won anything. Ever. If Pelé had been called Tim, Brazil would have been rubbish. Imagine that you're a top boxer and you've just been told that your next opponent is Iron Tim Tyson. How scrotum-shrinkingly terrifying would that be? Answer - not very. Put it this way, if Tim Churchill had been prime minister during the Battle of Britain then today our national dish would be bratwurst mit sauerkraut. With no pudding.

For me at least, Wimbledon will always mean one thing, and one thing only. A mad, hard-as-nails football team, that went from playing against Telford and Aldershot to top flight football in about half-an-hour. And that flukey FA Cup Final win in 1989, when Aldridge missed a penalty for Liverpool and 'Welsh' 'Hollywood' 'star', Vinnie Jones went on to pick up the cup along with that taxi-driver's favourite Dennis Wise and terminal OAP 'keeper Dave Beasant. All that, and no strawberries, or pathetic house-wifey cries of 'GO ON TIM!'. Yes, go on Tim, home's that way mate!