Simple Pleasures

Summerrrrtiiiiime and the livin' is easyyyyyy....

There is something about this picture that makes me miss my people. When I say "my people" I mean Brits, Northerners, normal folk. The type of people who get my humour. The type of people who take a plate covered in a filthy tea towel to the chippy for their tea. People to whom I don't have to repeat myself 5 times before giving up and rephrasing myself with words that they understand or slow enough that they get what I am trying to say. I still have my accent, sometimes more than others but as a necessity for work purposes, enunciate better and pronounce my "R's". When I have been drinking or after a recent conversation with a fellow Brit, it can be hard for simple Yanks to follow me.

Back to the picture though, I found it on a hometown website, uploaded by a member of the lady's family and I swear, had I simply come across this picture, with no knowledge of where it was found, I would say that without a shadow of a doubt, this auld lass was from my part of the world. I'm not making fun of her, she reminds me of my Grandma. Here she is, willing to be photographed looking completely unglamourous, curlers in, feet up in her ratty old slippers with holes in and smoking a ciggie in her back yard whilst catching a few precious rays of sunshine. For all we know, it could be a man in drag.

I don't mean to offend any non Brits with this post. Sometimes you just need to be around your own for a week or two until you get sick of the misery and the moaning and the long faces. This picture just aroused something in me (not sexually you sick bastards) and made me miss my family.

D.C. Warmington didn't help with his beautifully written post about his lawnmower either. It made me long for the English summer. Beer gardens, kebabs and the smell of curry carried like a feather on the evening breeze.

Fuck the airlines and their outrageous fares......

Kodak Moments

A milestone was passed in the Waring household today. The child lost her first baby tooth. Luckily, I was at work and didn't have to deal with the frantic screaming and wailing that followed the momentous event. Mrs. Waring did the honours. By the time I got home, things had settled down and the hysteria had been replaced by excitement at the prospect of a visit from the tooth fairy. There was some debate about what monetary value the tooth fairy places on the first tooth and naturally, being a six year old who still believes in Father Christmas and the Easter Bunny, (despite the influence of some smart arse friends), she was full of questions about how and why the tooth fairy does what she does. For a man such as myself who delights in misinforming the uninformed, (you get your kicks when you can), it is like a blank canvas to Salvador Dali.

It's not just me. Mrs. W does her fair share to confuse the issues too. In an effort to persuade the kid not to mess with the tooth after it had been placed under her pillow (makes it easier to find - smart see), she tried to compare it to finding a baby bird that had fallen out of its nest and once you put it back into its nest, not touching it again because the mummy bird will abandon it (?). This didn't make much sense to me either and I suspected (correctly) that she had got into the scotch again. The child seemed very confused, so I left it at that. To try and explain would lead down roads best not traveled so I simply said that mummy was being silly and changed the subject.

I put her to bed and put the tooth under the pillow, read her a story and kissed her goodnight and she asked "how will the tooth fairy get the tooth out if my head is on the pillow?" Dammit! A logical question! Caught on the hop, all I could say was "Its magic, no one knows, go to sleep," I turned out the light and left.

A few minutes ago, the wife came out to me. The kid had called her into the room and expressed concern that she had just been picking her nose and was worried that now the tooth fairy wouldn't show up. She reassured her that it was okay and left. The wimp! I would have told her to stick that under there as well because bogeys automatically double the value of the tooth. I can just see the concerned look on the Kindergarten teachers face as the story was told to the class tomorrow...... But I'm a sick cunt.

Yet Another Post About Cack

Whilst lunching at my favourite inexpensive Mexican hole the other day (and no, that is not a euphemism for going down on a cheap hooker,) I couldn't help but notice the extraordinary length of time one elderly gent spent in the toilet. It's a small restaurant and only has one toilet that serves both men and women, so if someone goes in there for any length of time, a line will soon form, especially during busy periods. Luckily, the place was quite empty and only myself, this old lad, his wife and another couple were there. I usually avoid this particular toilet as it is quite unsavoury and not at all appetizing (although there has been many a time when I have had no choice but to use it), while I think this is generally a good policy it has led to several "photo finishes" upon my return to the relative sterility of the work bogs. But that is another post entirely.

Anyway, this old lad went to the bog just as I was starting to eat my bowl of Posole. They are big bowls of steaming hot soup and usually take me a good 20-25 minutes to finish. I was almost done with it before I realized that the old man had not returned, so he must have been gone at least 15 minutes. I looked over at his wife who was reading a book, seemingly unconcerned by his extended absence. She must be used to it I thought. Another 5 minutes passed by and still no sign of the old geezer, I was getting concerned. How horrible would it be if he had died in there?

I had done a post a couple of months ago about a bloke who died on a bookies bog (still no word on the cause of death in that one) and so I found this situation naturally enthralling and needless to say would have to stick around past the end of my lunch time to find out. After a few more minutes, his wife got up and went to look for him. I was sure she would return screaming for help and readied myself with camera phone, just in case. Sadly Happily, a few moments later they both returned, him red faced and sweating, her shaking her head.

What I don't understand is how can some people possibly take so long in the bog? I'm not going to suggest that he was rubbing one out, he didn't seem the sort, but why the fuck did he go in there if he wasn't ready? I know some people who take like 10 minutes to have a shit. I'm in and out in under two minutes unless it's one of the sticky variety that takes forever to wipe clean. I also know people who can go a day or two without shitting when I'm in there 3 times a day guaranteed. You can put the rent money on it. It's a dead cert.

Whatever you do in the sanctity of your own shithouse is your business (Boom, Boom!) and who am I or anyone else for that matter to question it. But please, when in public places, especially if it's a one stall mexican shithole that serves food of a highly dubious quality, don't hog the bog cause you can be sure there will be someone who really needs to use it more than you do. Play the white man and wait until you are ready.

You Are My Sunshine

Mrs. Waring is in a good mood this morning. She has seemed a little tense the last couple of days, as if anticipating something unpleasant. I've been sick, tired and cranky which probably hasn't helped the atmosphere around here but things are on the up. She seems even more relieved than I am that the unthinkable did not happen, as it well might have done, this morning. My beloved Wigan Athletic avoided relegation from the Premiership, instead sending Sheffield Utd down by beating them 2-1.
She has good cause, I would have been impossible to live with for the foreseeable future had they lost. Ideally, West Fucking Ham would have been beaten by Man Utd and they would have gone down instead. Justice was not however fully served and the Blades were the unlucky ones. Too bad for them. West Fucking Ham will get what they deserve eventually.

On a less important note, today is of course Mothers Day. The one day of the year when wife beaters, misogynists and miserable husbands everywhere buy some cheap chocolates and a card that says "I may be an unloving cunt but I am obligated to buy a card that says I do in fact love you and am grateful for all the chips you make me(expires at midnight)." It's also the day when kids present their mum's with the card made with macaroni glued in the shape of a heart that they spent all day making in school last week and have been trying to hide ever since. It's sooooo cute!

Mrs.W seems content with her chocolates and cards and has gone back to bed, the excitement having tired her out.......did I mention that Wigan won?