I always assumed that when I wed Mrs Bob, she would be my one and only wife. Not so.
In one of the latest of my ‘dreams of a disturbed man’, I was at a party. A woman I last saw probably 30+ years ago was there and came over to me where I was standing alone. Nursing a drink, shyly looking round the room, I had not plucked up courage to speak to anyone. Eva – for her name is / was Eva – said I should go and speak to a woman sitting on the sofa looking lonely and a bit awkward.
Now she was not an attractive woman. Sturdy. Very quiet. There was no attraction on either side. I had it in my head that she was a refugee and felt sad for her.
The next thing is we are married. I’m thinking ‘but I don’t know her; I have no connection with her at all’. I don’t like to think what she was thinking. She was very smiley, very quiet and I didn’t even know her name.
‘What do you fancy doing today?’ I asked her. My new wife thought for a minute and then said ‘Sainsbury’s. I would loike to go to Sainsbury’s’. ‘No problem’ sez I but that was before she told me she wished o go to the Sainsbury’s in York as it is apparently a really good one. Feeling sorry for my wife and conscious she would have through a lot as a refugee, I agreed – a day trip from Essex to York and back to browse round an exceptional Sainsbury’s.
Then I woke up. Who knows what we bought. Did we fall in love? Where was Mrs Bob? I bet she was jealous and angry when she saw her big hunk of prime beef stolen away by a nameless usurper.
Over 300 word of rubbish. That’s me.
Now if it had been Waitrose…..I am rarely allowed to go to Waitrose. Only on my birthday.
Handy, as I have a lot of birthdays these days. Only the other day I convinced innocent new work colleagues that – yet again – it was my birthday, leading to a rousing rendition of that song in the pub until I was grassed up.
Still a few days later, a card, badge and sweeties from the team 6 months before / after my actual birthday prove that being ‘mistaken’ can, on occasions, pay off.
Karma though did even out that triumph as me and my dear friend Bulldozer ventured down to Sutton to see Stockport County a few weeks later. Now after 5 successive defeats, we actually played very well and it was a cracking game. The football was not the issue. The Devil had come to Sutton and nearly destroyed us……
I had assured Bulldozer the week before the game that we would verily feast at Sutton’s ground as the bountiful fare on offer was of a high quality, so much as to make your lips drool forth.
‘Two bacon and egg baguettes my good lady’ said I. Problem.
Now disaster averted as they had hot dogs with fried onions. I love a hot dog with fried onions, and of course a line of ketchup and a line of mustard.
No. Bloody. Mustard.
But the Devil had not yet arrived. But he / she / it did…..oh yes, and in horrific form…..no blinking BOVRIL!!!!!!!
Yes, NO BOVRIL. As I type, a little bit of frustrated wee escapes me. Damn you Devil. I will be avenged.
I know the origins of Bovril.
In 1870, in the Franco-Prussian War, Napoleon III ordered one million cans of beef to feed his troops. The task of providing all this beef went to John Lawson Johnston, a Scotsman living in Canada. Large quantities of beef were available across the British Dominions and South America, but its transport and storage were problematic. Therefore, Johnston created a product known as ‘Johnston’s Fluid Beef’, later called Bovril, to meet the needs of the French army. Truth.
A couple of weeks prior, Bulldozer and I went to Borehamwood, birthplace of my dog Little Ern and also adjacent to Elstree and it’s film studios. Stockport were hammered 4-0 and it could have been much much worse. Still we had an excellent day with Bulldozer’s old pal Julian and his mate Stan who agreed that Mrs Brown’s Boys is a load of Jane Horrocks.
Whilst we’re on the subject of x-rays (see how smooth my links are?), I have one tomorrow as well as a fasting blood test. It is my toe that are checking in case it is possessed or broken or full of maggots (for example). I would like them to do my ankle too but not sure you can put in your own requests.
The fasting blood test means that I have not eaten for nearly an hour. I feel very faint and can sense my organs starting to shut down. Pray for me.
Oo oo I fogot, County were live on tv the other week, beating Hartlepool 2-1. I cannot believe that so few people know why the ‘Pool are known as The Monkeyhangers.
According to local Hartlepool folklore, the term Monkeyhanger originates from an incident in which a monkey was hanged in Hartlepool.
During the Napoleonic Wars, a French ship was wrecked in a storm off the coast of Hartlepool. The only survivor from the ship was a monkey, allegedly dressed in a French army uniform to provide amusement for the crew. On finding the monkey on the beach, some locals decided to hold an impromptu trial; since the monkey was unable to answer their questions and because they had seen neither a monkey nor a Frenchman before, they concluded that the monkey must be a French spy. Being found guilty, the animal was sentenced to death and was hanged on the beach.
I blame the Stelling family.
Stockport are live on BT Sport at 5.20pm tomorrow (18 Oct) v York City in the FA Cup but I will miss it. At least I have visited the fine Sainsbury’s in the city in my dreams.
I bought a homeless man a cappuccino today but he refused my offer of a jam croissant. He may be weaning himself off continental fare in case there will be no more after 31 October?
Off out tomorrow night with Big Foot, and the two princes. Last time I drank with them was a week after my three month sobriety ended. They made me drink two bottles of red wine and eat lots of spicy cheesy poof type snacks. The latter made me feel rotten. I hope there are no snacks tomorrow night to give me a hangover.
So time to watch some crap TV. Maybe last night’s Apprentice but it is not very good is it. Mrs Bob may not want to watch with me after my bigamy and trips to York without her.