What a sh*t day for punting yesterday was. There's a fine line between winning and losing and this translates to a fine line between having a nice Columbia University mug and having one in a thousand pieces on the floor and coffee stains on the walls and ceiling.
Micheal Owen nearly scores then goes off injured AGAIN. Of course Peter Crotch then scores England's winner. Someone that tall should not be called Crouch in my opinion. Russia then go and hit the post which had it gone in would have won the match and of course Israel somehow go and win instead. And Italy score in the last minute. I think Bob Hall is still running.
Micheal Owen nearly scores then goes off injured AGAIN. Of course Peter Crotch then scores England's winner. Someone that tall should not be called Crouch in my opinion. Russia then go and hit the post which had it gone in would have won the match and of course Israel somehow go and win instead. And Italy score in the last minute. I think Bob Hall is still running.
***
As some of my recent posts have alluded to, I've got a wee cold at the moment bless my little cotton socks, and some of the remedies and medications I've been experimenting with have taken me off to some pretty strange places when I dream and when I've been awake as it happens.
When I'm in this state I become incredibly brusque. Not because I'm taking my bad mood out on people, I'm just denied my natural alacrity and speed of thought. When I'm asked a question my mind chooses the path of least resistance to find an answer to save me time and energy and my delivery can sometimes come across as rather discourteous.
So now, it's pissing with rain and there's a knock on my door. I have a bell you know, but people still knock. I'm dressed in my warmest Marks and Sparks pyjamas, dressing gown and a cream coloured cowboy hat. I open the door and stood before me is a gentleman of about 40, he's wearing a wax jacket and seems fairly harmless; he has slightly feminine mannerisms and seems to be the type who get out of the bath when they need a piss and can't wait to creosote the garden fence when opportunity arises. We'll call him Ron.
When I'm in this state I become incredibly brusque. Not because I'm taking my bad mood out on people, I'm just denied my natural alacrity and speed of thought. When I'm asked a question my mind chooses the path of least resistance to find an answer to save me time and energy and my delivery can sometimes come across as rather discourteous.
So now, it's pissing with rain and there's a knock on my door. I have a bell you know, but people still knock. I'm dressed in my warmest Marks and Sparks pyjamas, dressing gown and a cream coloured cowboy hat. I open the door and stood before me is a gentleman of about 40, he's wearing a wax jacket and seems fairly harmless; he has slightly feminine mannerisms and seems to be the type who get out of the bath when they need a piss and can't wait to creosote the garden fence when opportunity arises. We'll call him Ron.
Ron: Oh er...I was looking Anne and Mick.
Me: Silence and a stare. The kind of stare you get from someone who doesn't speak the same language when you're asking for directions.
Ron: Obviously I've got the wrong house.
Me: More silence and a stare which has mental instability written all over it.
Ron: This isn't Bluebell Way I take it, the streets are quite confusing.
Me: No. I doff my cowboy hat, say "Ma'am", and close the door.
I don't know why I called him ma'am, it wasn't meant to be derogatory, it just seemed like the thing to say at the time. I've been laughing retrospectively ever since. If I do say so myself, even if I didn't mean it, it was a wonderful piece of deadpan delivery in the sort of Bill Murray style. I didn't mean to offend the chap or be rude to him, this is just how I am when I'm in this state. I shan't go out until my condition improves or I'll lose friends.
***
In other news, I've played a lot of poker recently so all my dreams and reveries involve poker. While that creepy kid in the 'Sixth Sense' sees dead people, I see flops, turn cards and rivers. This morning I played a heads-up no-limit session with Fidel Castro. I've always sort of admired Castro in so much as he's gotten at least nine US presidents arse hairs up, not quite so much for the starving of his own people, but his David to the USA's Goliath is inspiring stuff.
Now then...heads-up we played with live chickens flying about the place and a woman with a snake around her body dancing seductively. Hugo Chavez was also present and played the recorder every time Fidel took a pot down and sort of cackled like a Latin American looney-toon.
Now then...heads-up we played with live chickens flying about the place and a woman with a snake around her body dancing seductively. Hugo Chavez was also present and played the recorder every time Fidel took a pot down and sort of cackled like a Latin American looney-toon.
I lost the battle when my Kings were beaten by Fidel's hand which contained the Old Kent Road, and the four Railway Stations. By this time the dream was not quite so lucid and I began to wake. When I did come round there was moisture around me. I have a water bed and feared it had sprung a leak, but fortunately I had just pissed myself. Phew!
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