Well, I can't get any money until Wednesday (long story) which means that I have precisely £1.37p to last me around 28 hours.
There are a number of drawbacks to this situation:
1. There is hardly any petrol in the car and it is a 43-mile drive to work.
2. Unless the restaurant at work is overnight turned into a soup kitchen or the gastronomic equivalent of a Pound Shop I shall have to go hungry tomorrow.
3. The soon-to-be ex-Mrs Pither must have been entertaining the reincarnations of Oliver Reid, Keith Moon and Lee Marvin over the weekend because there is not a drop of booze left in the house with which to dull my pain.
4. I can't be like sensible people and have a nice cuppa instead because there is no milk left and I can't drink tea without milk.
Ho hum. As a little boy, I remember I wanted to be a circus clown. That fell by the wayside when I decided, instead, that a life as a jungle explorer would better suit my talents. On being advised that vacancies for jungle explorers were few and far between I then set my heart on becoming a vet. A slight cock-up on the A-Levels front put paid to that and so I drifted into the Fourth Estate. Throughout those formative years of hopes and dreams, however, I always knew deep down that whatever I did it would not end with me becoming a millionaire who spent all his days lounging around on a beach, surrounded by nubile young women. I did, however, have aspirations that by the age of 46 I would have enough money to afford petrol, just enough moolah to be able to buy food and drink and the wherewith all to run to a bottle of gold top now and again.
How the flights of fancy of our youth are dashed! Poverty can go to Grantham.
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2 comments:
Am I alone in seeing the connection between your uncalled-for onslaught on Mr Manning, and the sudden downturn in your fortune? God only occasionally moves in mysterious ways, most of the time he is fucking obvious. Just in case you think that this is going in the direction of "God loving a good Paki joke", then you are of course far from the mark. What has pissed God off, more than you can imagine, is having the repulsive wanker hanging around his front door for the next 48 hours in his underwear, trying to get in, and telling what he thinks are jokes in order to ingratiate himself. Who wouldn't be pissed off? Then you go and make a joke of it. I suggest you get on your knees, young man, and apologise to the Almighty forthwith. Tell him you'll put Bernard up for the night till his cell in hell is ready. You might find a fiver under the sofa as a result.
Vicus,
Things are bad enough round here without the corpse of a fat, talentless Manc lying about the place. No, he's Satan's problem now, skint though I may be.
Rodrigo,
Oh you do make me laugh. I fully agree with you as well. I think, however, you are being a tad harsh mentioning the "sausage" and the "llama".
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