What the fuck? I mean, What? The? Fuck?
There is surely some nasty, horrid secret in my past which has come on round on the gas-guzzling Karma Bus and is currently pumping out its noxious exhaust fumes all over my bunch-of-shit-at-the-moment life.
My poor old motor is having a real rough time of it. Not only did it have to suffer the indignity of an MOT last week (which it passed, thankfully), it’s had the paintwork scraped (see a previous entry), the fuel gauge has packed up again and – AND – some bastard driver kicked up a bloody great spray of stones and gravel over my windscreen, cracking it in a rather lovely manner. So now I have to get a new bleedin’ windscreen. But of course, the people can’t come out until next Tuesday. By which time the glass will no doubt have shattered completely and fallen out of the frame.
Haha, I jest, of course. Of course I do. But nothing would surprise me at the moment.
You see, glass breaking and my car are currently best buddies. Oh yes. Especially if that glass is in the shape of a bottle of red wine in my boot. It went everywhere. Well, down the back of the rear seats and into the carpet in the boot to be honest. But I’ve now got a car that smells like a tramp’s armpit. And I know why it happened too.
It’s because when I got to the checkout with my six bottles of wine and the loaf of bread I’d bought for Ian and Nic, I said to the lass behind the till I said, “Heh, look, it seems I’m on the Jesus diet.” Man, I am ever Damned. Obviously the quip went over the head of the vacant-looking bird asking for my Nectar card.
So, it’s a deep breath and a rootle out of the insurance details so that I can find out how much my new windscreen will cost (on top of a premium increase next year).
All I wanna do is buy a house, but all the bloody Estate Agents in Ipswich don’t want to sell me one. I have a shed load of money I, ahem, acquired from a chum in, er, Kent, and wish to invest it – no questions asked – in a gaff of my own.
But whenever I phone up and ask about going to see one of these wretched places, they’ve “just been sold”. I get the feeling that “just been sold” is the Estate Agent equivalent of “the cheque’s in the post”, or “who the hell do you think you are phoning me up just now? I was about to have a cup of tea.”
There’s a fucking AWARD for the best person at writing blogs?? Give me a break. The two British entries are the professional-author penned Belle du Jour and some geek who likes eating full English breakfasts. Did boredofjam get a single mention as “best most grumpy blog”? Did it bollocks. Looks like I’m going to have to get even more grumpy. You have been warned.
However, on a more amusing note, I am off to see Dara O’Briain this evening. Hurrah!
[Also, it was Stuart’s birthday today, so Happy Birthday pal.]
Now fuck off the lot of you.