Confessions of a House Husband

Can I start off by saying it’s a piece of piss being a house husband. Technically I’m not a fully fledged house husband because we’re not married, but you get the idea.

Sybil starts the day off by getting up, she wakes the ‘bin lid’ up, then feeds him, dresses him, then takes him to school before going to work herself. Leaving me to fester in my flock till about 11ish (when the little fella isn’t in school I let him sleep in with me – Father like son he can kip for England given the chance). After rising at 11 I saunter to the bathroom and do the necessaries, then it’s on to the kitchen to sort out my bacon, toms, toast & tea, I retire to the couch and flick SSN on to see what the latest transfer rumour is.

The ‘dog’ will bleep quite a few times while I’m having my elevenses…….”Don’t forget to do the dishes”…….”Don’t forget to pick him up at 3:30″……….”Don’t forget to peel the spuds”…….”Don’t forget to hoover & stick your dirty skids in the wash”. I read all the messages Sybil sends me, I laugh and send here the obligatory “OK” reply before farting rolling over then flicking over to ‘Cash in the Attic’ and ‘Bargain Hunt’.

Three cups of tea and five ciggies later, I’m up off the couch and have put the dirty dishes in the dishwasher, stuffed the skid marked undies in the machine and I’m off out the door to collect the little fella from school. After perving on the MILF’s at the school gate’s, a quick stop off at the shops to get the Echo and 20 Embo’s, I’m back home on the couch surfing the net while he’s glued to CITV.

A few hours later I get the dreaded call telling me she will be in, in 15 minutes time. I run around the house like it’s the end of a Benny Hill programme as I empty the dishwasher, give the carpet the once over with the hoover and start to peel the spuds, just as she enters the kitchen. I retire to the couch yet again and let her take over the cooking stakes and that is where I stay as she finishes the tea, baths the little fella then takes him to bed and then finally she sits down to enjoy the meal she cooked as we both watch Casualty or some other shit on the telly.

Exhausted, she drops of to bed not long after and leaves me to wallow on the couch till the early hours. I finally return to my flock not to be seen till 11 the next morning.

As I’ve said, it’s a piece of piss this house husband lark.

Same shit different day.

I’ve just been recruited in to the TF-141, I’m on Special Ops in Moscow and I’m just about to go and join Vladimar Makarov in a brutal massacre of unarmed civilians waiting in a terminal at Zakhaev International Airport.

I could be gone for some time.

over & out

Running a restaurant isn’t a bed of roses

The Restaurant – BBC2

Seriously, where the fuck do they get these clowns from? Take the two women last week, who Raymond banished from the programme early, after they made fools of themselves in the kitchen, when they couldn’t open a tin of coconut milk and then struggled with cracking open a coconut! Fuck me, if you can’t open a tin what chance have you got at running a restaurant?

What about the mother & son combo who Raymond dispatched with haste also in the first week. He asked them about a name and theme for their rezzy, they both turned and looked at each other, then started grinning and didn’t say a thing. What the fuck were they thinking? Here they were on TV with Raymond fucking Blanc, here was there big chance to achieve their dream and they said fuck all and blew it. I was laughing my bollocks off at the their parting shot of mother and son consoling each other as they trotted back to middle England with their Daily-Mail-tail between their legs – It’s piss easy throwing a dinner party for your husbands golf club friends but throw these people into common sense, working environments like a kitchen and they (apple) crumble.

These might seem like harsh words coming from a lazy work-shy cunt like me, sat here, glued to the couch, but how hard is it to run a restaurant? First off you need decent food, so a good chef is essential. Then you must have a friendly, clean and comfortable place to enjoy the food. And lastly – as we discovered in tonight’s programme – you must get your food out on time and not make people wait over an hour for a fucking pizza.

Tonight’s clowns were Janet and Sean Duffy who made a Pizza Express come to a complete stand still when they fed hardly any customers. Instead they plied them with booze until the proper rezzy manager had to step in and comment that the place was turning into some kind of bar. This was when Sean stepped up and gave an apologetic speech to the hungry mob and promised them all a free bouquet of flowers from his florist shop – that supplies the likes of Angelina Joley, in case you missed it. There’s not a crocus in hell’s chance that you’ll get anything free off this fella believe me. I got on him in the first episode and commented to Sybil that I knew him. When I worked in a hotel many moons ago, this fella owned a florist shop in Bloomsbury that we used to use, when hotel guests ordered flowers. The trick was; the head concierge would give you 20 quid for a bouquet, you would then go to the florist shop and order a bouquet for 15 quid, pocketing the fiver profit. He grassed us up one time when Ahmed a new recruit porter foolishly asked for a receipt for 20 quid (we had our own book of blank receipts that one of the porters had lifted from his shop one time), he smelled a rat and phoned the head concierge up. We stopped using him after that and started using a sound fella who ran a flower stall down at Seven Dials in Covent Garden, who gave us as many blank receipts as we wanted and would always try and bulk up your bouquet to make it look expensive.

With three couples down already and six left, the going gets a lot tougher next week, when the couples are given the keys to their rezzy. My money’s on the two young lads from Kent – they seem level headed, one of them can at least cook and they have some common sense. Favourites to go are JJ Goodman & James – two complete bell wipes who run a cocktail bar in London and who I’d gladly mow down with an Uzi and not feel one ounce of remorse.

On The Nest FM

The ’scouse radiator’ has been warming me up in bed all week and I’ve been listening to these tunes in the car – driving round at work day dreaming of coming home to a good hearty meal on the table and a cuddle on the couch.

On the nest FM by swinetv
What Do You Want – Adam Faith
Cars And Girls – Prefab Sprout
She Drives Me Crazy – Fine Young Cannibals
Things Can Only Get Better - Howard Jones
Genius of Love – Tom Tom Club
Do I Love You (Indeed I Do) – Chris Clark
Don’t Change Your Love - Five Stairsteps
Baby Let’s Do It The French Way – Chocolat’s
I Love The Way You Love - Little Beaver
You Give Me Something – Jamiroquai
Estelle – A Man Called Adam
Sweetest Truth (Show No Fear) – Stereo MC’s
Love Beat (World Of Apples Mix) - 砂原良徳
Superfly Guy – S’Express
Love Jam – The Lab Rats
Just Loving You -Ruby Andrews
Dub In Love – The In Crowd

Pre-Match Spliff

When I watch the match in doors my ritual is always the same. The Liverpool shorts are worn and I’ve always got a cone in my mouth ready to be sparked as the ref blows for the kick-off. With Sybil over with the ’saucepan’ for the half-term break, I thought my ritual would be sent into disarray and I wouldn’t be able to enjoy the match in my usual manner. Drastic measures were called for.

I crawled out of bed at about 10:30 and pottered about the house for 20 minutes or so. Pacing up and down with a giddy feeling in the stomach, which was calmed down with a can of Redbull and a Marlboro Gold (when did they become Gold and not Lights?). The Paris St Germain trackie was put on and the Adidas LA were chosen for the short drive to the paper shop. The little fella came along for the ride and received a copy of ‘Just Kick-It’ Magazine for his troubles (he did want a Pokeman comic but i talked him round). The footy mag came with a set of free footy stickers, one of which was Agger – me seeing this as an omen got on the blower straight away and put a few pennies on him for first goal scorer.

The plan was hatched on the way back from the paper shop. Tell Sybil the match kicks off a 4, send her off into town with some spends and tell her to be back for 4 when her roast dinner would be on the table just in time for the footy (ha ha …as if!).

I started snarling the minute I walked in the door….

‘You not done them dishes yet? – come on love pull yer finger out’
‘Have you stripped the bed yet and thrown the sheets in the wash?’
‘Put the joint in the oven and sort that veg out for us will ya’

This went on for a couple of hours until I hit her with…

‘Listen why don’t you go and nip into to town and go and grab that coat you’ve seen for the little fella and here you go, get yourself something as well, I’ll have the dinner ready for 4 when the match starts’. Of course she agreed as she didn’t fancy another two hours of domestic chores.

The time was 1:55 when I finally bundled them both out the door. I raced around and collected the chong box from off the top of the fridge and turned the TV over to the sports channel and began to roll up. I had just finished rolling and was sorting the roach out when I looked down with horror and noticed I was still wearing the trackie bottoms and not my ‘lucky’ Liverpool shorts that I always wear when being a telly clapper. I needed to go & change and quick, if I didn’t manage to get back with shorts on and spark the spliff on the refs whistle we were doomed. That cunt Owen would score the winner at the Kop End, without any doubt, I just knew it.

Quick as a flash, I ran to the bedroom and with out fuss I found my freshly washed and Ironed shorts in the pile of clothes that were placed on the stripped bed. I then threw them on and ran back to the front room and plonked myself down on the couch. AAAAARRRRRRGGGGHHHHH!!!!! where was the spliff? I ran back to the bedroom and retrieved the spliff from off the bed from where I’d left it. I then plonked myself down again, with all the players ready for the refs whistle to kick off, I placed the spliff in my mouth. It was then I realised the fucking joint still never had a roach in!!! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!. The ref was ready to blow the whistle as I fumbled around for the piece of cardboard I tore off the rizla packet only minutes earlier. I was rushing and my hands were trembling and It was a struggle to get the roach in the end! I wasn’t going to do it in time and my fears about getting snotted would come true. It was then the miracle happened and as the ref put the whistle to his lips, he noticed something and put his arm back down and began signalling down towards the Kop. Lucky for me a few beach balls had strayed onto the pitch and this gave me the few extra seconds I needed to push the roach in, place the doob in my mouth and then spark it just as the ref blew. I then knew we would win the game.

“GET IN THERE TORRES LAD!!!!”

When Sybil arrived back at 4 o’clock she was abit upset to see a monged out Cheshire Cat chong casualty on the couch and no dinner on the table

Don’t Let The Bastards Grind U Down

‘When I’m out with me mates right, and we’re all on one, buzzin’ off our nuts all together, it feels like we could………well like we could…’

‘What, that you know it all? you’re a bit special?’

‘Nah………sometimes yeah…no..yeah yeah yeah definitely, it feels like we could do fucking anything, you know what i mean?’

‘Yeah, I used to think that when i was your age…….but I’m still cleaning bloody windows’

‘if you wanna catch Roy the Roach tonight he’ll be at the Promised Land with Weatherall & Farley – wherever you’re going have a great weekend and to take you on your way here’s Flowered Up with their new one Weekender’

Has there ever been a better opening to a music video than that one above. Well maybe yes, but I’m coming at it from a biased angle though because this film was about my generation. This was our own little Quadrophenia squashed superbly into an outstanding 15 odd minutes by Wiz. This was an anthem for all the ‘work all week, get loved up at the weekend and suffer on the Monday’ brigade. Turning up for work straight from the club with the Marty Feldman eyes and simpleton smile, trying to convince your boss that your ok. We’ve all been there.

I even went as far as buying a waistcoat type thingy, like what him out of Harvey Moon wears in the video. Don’t laugh, I’m serious! I know, I must of looked a right fucking helmet in my Patrick Cox slip ons-pair of jeans-white Ralph shirt-and snide waistcoat. I thought I looked like the King of Carnaby Street and I even put on a bit of a cockney bowl to go with my barrow boy persona.

I’d seen the group play a few times live. One of those times was at the Astoria in 91. Me and Holsten Joe went and with my bad memory I can’t remember much apart from standing over in the corner and skinning up all night. I’d seen Liam a few times on his own walking down Great Russell Street with what looked like a big keyboard under his arm and I’d let on, nothing major just a nod of the head and an ‘all right mate’ type of thing. He probably thought who is this knob in a porters uniform who’s always stood outside the hotel skiving and lets on every time I go past. Me stood there with no socks on and no undies under me uniform – shaking like Michael J Fox when he can’t find the key to the medicine cabinet – after spending all night out on the Vodka and gunpowder with a load of Italian girls back in a basement flat which was down on Charlotte Street and it was never my intention to stay so long…

There is only three groups that defy my generation when i was growing up between the ages of 15 and 20 odd and those three were; The Mondays/Farm/Flowered Up, without any doubt. These groups dressed and acted the way we did and I’d of give me right arm to of been a 24hour party Bez or a geranium gurning Mooncult or even at a push a Mr Peter ’sex in training shoes’ Hooton on stage. But unfortunately the dream didn’t happen for me, I was condemned to work for a living and couldn’t enjoy the fruits of a rock and roll lifestyle. Take it from me I’ve tried my upmost to rectify that certain situation though…

Liam Maher RIP

Got thirteen channels of shit on the T.V. to choose from.

I used to enjoy Friday night TV – but not anymore. Even when I have over a 100 channels to choose from (most of them foreign ones ), I still watch a load of shite. I normally hang around the BBC channels waiting for something decent as I don’t get the ITV channels or Channel4/5.

‘After midnight, were gonna let it all hang down’, slow-hand once sang and you know what he was right, because after the witching hour I like to trawl the film channels for a bit of porn. Five minutes later I’m back flicking again from one bit of torrid tv to another. Anyway here’s a load of rubbish that was intruding on my gogglebox tonight……

Christine Blakley’s smile and legs – The One Show BBC1

Stacey going loco down in Walford – Eastenders BBC1

Chris Packham talking shite about birds followed by Percy and Cassius the rutting stags – Autumn Watch BBC2

Dylan Jones’ dessed in a bad suit and tie combo giving really obvious sound bites about Dean Martin – Kings Of Cool BBC4

Some Warringtonian ginger twat talking shite with a fop haired Leytonstone twat – Ross BBC1

Kevin Smith in a dressing gown and sneakers, sweating profusely whilst blabbering to the rather sultry and demure Kirsty Walk – Newsnight Review – BBC2

Big Phat Black Ghetto Azz – HustlerTV

Handy Man

Late night Sunday viewing for me this week is Handyman on my foreign satellite channel. If you’ve never heard of him, he’s the Dutch version of Ben Dover – meets girls on the street/takes to a hotel to bang – that type of gonzo grot flick.

Well I was just sat back here thinking, watching the telly, as two Dutch delights finger each other senseless, while Handy Man keeps it nice and steady with the handy cam, that is until he puts the camera on the bedside table and joins in the lucky twat!

And that’s what I was thinking….. ‘why can’t I be that lucky twat’…,why has handy man got the gig? Well it’s not that hard a job is it?

You pay a couple of Eastern European scuts to play the girls who get approached on the street, then get them back to the hotel room to do a quick half hour of labia licking and toying of each others twats, before getting them to suck your schlong, finishing off with a nice facial. You could get a couple girls to do that, for say 200 – 300 euros each. Throw in another 150 for the hotel room. Presuming you already own a camera/few lights and a computer with editing facilities, I can’t see there being anymore over heads. So say 700 euro tops.

I wonder how much Handy Man actually makes from each film? He’s got a website where he sells DVD’s from Handy Man. Plus he’s getting paid off the satellite company every time they show one of his films.

Anyway that’s enough thinking for one night, now back to them two Dutch delights, who are beavering away at each others…erm…beavers as I type….

Charley Bore-man – ‘By Any Means’ #6785

Charley Bore-man – ‘By Any Means’ #6785

You’ve seen him take part in ‘Long Way Round’ – a motorcycle trip from London to New York via Europe and Asia with that other free loader Ewan McGregor.

Next up was the ‘Race To Dakar’ – Unfortunately during the rally Boreman injured himself and was forced to retire from the race after five days.

Not to be thwarted, Boreman (after recovering from injury), set out on his third free holiday…..sorry, adventure, when he went ‘The Long Way Down” with his old pal Ewan. A trip from John o’ Groats in Scotland, to Cape Town, South Africa, again on motor bikes.

Charlie then went solo for his ‘By Any Means’ series. Ewan was not able to take part as he had other filming commitments else where. Filming commitments have ceased to exist for good old Charlie boy – people have said his decline in film work has something to do with his ‘director’ father not making anymore films. Anyway you’ve seen Chas go all around the world, starting in his home town in County Wicklow, Ireland and ending in Sydney, Australia, going “by any means”, using local transportation appropriate to the area being travelled.

Charley will be commencing his second series of ‘By Any Means’ from Freshwater Park on the Northern Beaches of Sydney and will end up in Tokyo Japan, taking in the Pacific Rim along the way, (nice work if you can get it!).

Coming soon on the BBC

Charley fly’s his family first class to the paradise islands of the Turks & Cacaos for a two week sun worshipping spree.

Charley gets a chauffeur driven car to his local Waitrose to pick up a pot of creme fresh.

University Challenge

University Challenge

I’m not an avid fan of UC, but if I’m flicking through the channels and I stumble upon it, I have to do this sad ritual ,that I must abide by before I can turn over. My challenge consists of answering two questions correctly before I can change channels. Even when my bird is present and she’s demanding for me to turn over to Eastenders, I still have to get the questions right before she gets her wish. I’ll be marching along the edge of the coffee table Sgt Major style, but instead of a twirling baton in my hand, I juggle the remote from one claw to the other. Sybil will be warbling away at me to turn over, me telling her to fuck off, still pacing up and down waiting for Paxman to throw me an easy one on 60’s pop music or sport.

“ALF RAMSEY!!………IT’S ALF RAMSEY!!……….TAKE THAT PAXMAN YER BEAUT”

I then do a Henman fist at Sybil lying on the couch, before throwing her the remote control as I triumphantly strut off and then turn an flick the V’s behind her back.

Good night on BBC2 tonight after UC – first up Professional Master Chef and then Designs For Life – were a load of English designers go on an ‘Apprentice’ type interview with the Alan Sugar look alike Phillipe Starck – should be good for a laugh!