Women and football

I have the house to myself this weekend. The Girlf and the Eldest are off on a Cheer jaunt. The Eldest has been practicing her solo for weeks. I’ve seen it so many times I can do the routine myself.
The Girlf hates these Cheer meets. They bore the hell out of her and cost several hundred pounds. Normally she takes half a dozen books to help her get through the fourteen hour days. For this one she has included a compilation of Einstein’s papers.
This is clearly a distancing exercise, a way of separating her self from the rest of the grinning cheer-mums. I call her up on this self riotous, smugness but she hotly denies all.
Already I’m enjoying the tranquillity. Although I’ve only been up for an hour the kitchen is already gleaming. This weekend is a great opportunity for a man clean. The house is best described by the Latin term shit-hole.
The Girlf has been down with a virus all week and every room is strewn with cake crumbs and empty crisp packets. She’s spent the last few days moaning and crying in her death bed, between mouthfuls obviously.
Things got serious on Thursday when her chest began to hurt. She has NHS Direct on speed-dial as it is less effort than getting down to her G.P. Fully expecting to be told it was no-more than a chest infection she was shocked when the health assistant informed her his computer was prompting him to call an ambulance. Funnily, all her symptoms were pointing towards a heart-attack.
Four bloody hours in A and E. She had everything, three types of blood test, scans and x-rays. There’s nothing like a hypochondriac faced with the possibility of there actually being something seriously wrong with them. She spent all the time telling the doctors and nurses she was fine. They just got on with the procedures and left her to wait for the results with a multi-valved tube hanging out of a vein in her hand.
Turns out it was a cartilage inflammation, pain killers and rest. The German doctor thought normal oral pain killers wouldn’t be strong enough and was very insistent on pushing the suppositories on her. A bit too insistent I thought. She said no several times before he stopped trying to persuade her to allow him to shove medication up her arse. All the time the nurse had a ‘not again’ expression on her face and I noted he hadn’t offered them to the rough looking bloke with half a finger on the other side of the room.
If you ever have to go to A and E it’s best to avoid late afternoon. It seems to be the school rush. When we got in at four there were half a dozen little boys in front of us hopping around on one leg. Things calm down about eight then I suppose they get busy again toward mid-night when the piss-head rush starts. With hine-sight we really should have taken the ambulance. We would have got seen a lot quicker.
All alone on a Saturday afternoon and the football season hasn’t started. I’m loving the tranquillity yet I can’t help but think if this was next month the day would be perfect. I could ramp up the radio and peacefully enjoy a match without any distractions. The only time a managed it last season was when she spent a Saturday afternoon asleep, hung-over.
The heady rumour mill of transfers has already started. The Fabregas debacle continues. I thought he looked rather fetching in that Barca top that was ‘forced upon’ him last week. You could almost feel the Gooner’s steaming all over the country, adding to the hot weather. Must be horrible when your captain wants to desert you, eh? Cunts.
It’s pleasing to see that Rooney has had a thirty thousand pound a week pay rise! Good for Rooney, he earned every penny of that in South Africa. Word on the grape vine is that he didn’t perform because he was missing his kid. It’s coming to something when ugly, aggressive pikey tinkers are acting like fags. Try winning a World cup Wayne, give your kid something to be proud of, how about that? Surely that would be better in the long run than pining over missed nappy changes. Cunts.
It’s controversial but I’m starting to feel sorry for Ashley Cole. I’m not surprised he wants to get out of the country. One of his old school reports was in the paper the other day. The gist of the article was ‘look, he was a wanker then as-well’.
The poor bastard gets shit for getting laid now and he’s single! Is it me or did Cheryl move on a little too quickly for a heart broken woman. She was ‘being comforted’ by her new bloke within a week. No over lap then Chez, mmmm?
I can’t be too hard on her I suppose. We should be glad she didn’t do a load of coke and start on a black woman in a toilet again.

Cunts.