watch some YouTube!

2010-11-23, 9:08 p.m.
Sunday


In case you were wondering about the title of that last entry it was, of course, the phonetic equivalent of this:

For those not in the know, M.O.T.D. is pretty much the most well-known football show on UK television and has been since way before TVs were even invented. Early shows had footage of Mammoth United�s victory against Cave City in the Cro-Magnon Cup in the titles and it was that long ago that Stock Aitken and Waterman had done the remix of the theme tune (although it did make it a bit difficult to hear the �DeeDeeDeeDeeeee d�deedeedeedee� amongst all that �BomChick-a-lickalickBom Chick-a-lickalick�).

*pauses�as now has �you spin me round� on the brain�..or is it �never gonna give you up?� or �you�ll never stop me from loving you�? whatever, they�re all the same song*

As it is on TV at quite-late-o-clock on a Saturday, it is also a kind of reverse alarm clock for a large section of English womanhood, signalling that its time to go to bed as you�ll not get any sense out of your man for around three quarters of an hour while he yells advice at the TV and gets into that mindset whereby despite being paunchy, half drunk, over 40 and in possession of a dodgy back that gives out if he so much as bends to pick a bit of fluff off his Matalan slippers, he still believes himself to be better than Messi, Drogba and Maicon (google them, its too much html for my tiny tiny brain to muster up the links) in midfield, up front and at the back respectively.

The women of England retire to their candlewick and flick through Hello while they wait for the heavy footfalls on the stair, fart noises, pissing-like-a-racehorse and coughing up catarrh to signal the imminent arrival of their prince in the boudoir. Then they pretend to be asleep, flicking off the light quicker than you can say �not fucking likely, Clive. You�ve had those underpants on since Tuesday and your breath is a mixture of JPS, Pernod and pickled onion Monster Munch�.

Ah, happy days.

Just as a qualifier, L doesn�t watch Match of the Day. When its on he is either too drunk to open his eyes or already having sex. Or both.

Tuesday



This week, dear friends, its Year 11 Mock GCSE week which means nobody has been up to the Special Educational Needs department as they have all been sitting in the gym, chewing their pencils, sighing, picking their noses and trying to look like they can remember how to fill in a multi-choice paper.

I have been invigilating. Basically, that means I have been sitting in a chair, staring into space, waiting for somebody to ask for more paper and doing my absolute DAMNDEST to NOT do this:

The temptation has been almost too much to bear.

Yesterday after school I played football again � we had an odd number of players and, as the other football coach (the proper one � the one that knows all the drills and everything) is not really allowed to join in*, I had to play the full hour � some of it in goal. Despite threats of detention for anyone who knowingly kicked the ball right at me, I am covered in bruises.

* in senior school football, boys are only permitted to play in a match with girls if the boys do not tackle the girls. If there is a boy on each team they may tackle each other but there�s no cross-gender hacking allowed. Ironic really, when you consider they are doing MUCH worse things to each other behind the changing huts than chopping lumps out of each others shins, but there you go.

To add insult to injury, or rather, to add injury to injury, I also went to a keep fit class last night. I thought it would be a cinch as the teacher is a friend of Ls and the other participants are either fat or old or both. I was mistaken and I was glad that I was lurking at the back as I could neither coordinate my limbs into the correct combination of �swing arms to the LEFT, heels UP, tummy IN, step 2 to the RIGHT, bob to the LEFT and AGAIN 2, 3, 4� nor could I actually manage all the repetitions without the occasional sit down or �retying of shoelaces�. This morning, I feel as though each and every one of those fat old ladies had bounced up and down on all my major muscle groups, possibly to the tune of Jingoooooooooooo, Jingo POP.

Altogether now! Jump on Stepfie to the LEFT, kick her arse to the RIGHT, and STAMP those biceps, TRAMPLE those deltoids, pick up your walking sticks and SMACK her in the abs. JinGOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!

later
s
x




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