Friday, 1 May 2009

POA (plan of attack)

Wrote this in work at 11ish when I was bored shitless.
Plan of attack for weekend is as follows:
Tonight, take Daughter to ballet then cook tea before disappearing down pub for a couple of ciders.
Up early Saturday for Golf. Place a few bets followed by snooze in afternoon. Early evening, disappear down pub for a few ciders.
Sunday, take Daughter to Church, cook Sunday dinner then disappear into City to watch Blues v Leicester followed by lots of ciders.
Monday, disappear and do fuck all.
As you can tell I disappear with alarming regularity. I’m like David fucking Copperfield.
My best disappearing act happened several years ago. I was living with my now wife but at the time we weren’t married. One Friday night I got home from work and popped out at 5ish to get a pint of milk. As you do, I nipped in the pub for a quick one and whilst there my mate rang and the conversation went a bit like this.
“Where are you”? “Pub”. “What you wearing”? “Suit”. “Good, I’ll be there in ten minutes”.
Sure enough, my mate turns up all suited and booted and hands me a ticket for the boxing that night. Steve Robinson, who was then World Champion, was having his last fight before meeting Naseer Hamed. So we have a few beers and head into town. After the boxing we meet up with my mates brother and head off to this dodgy club he’s a member of. Several hours later I wake up in the VIP section with this blonde sitting on my lap kissing my neck. I swear, when the three of us left this club with three girls in tow, not only was it light but it was fucking hot as well and there were hundreds of people out and about doing their shopping.
We head back to my mates brothers house for a party and then, after the girls have left, go to Rugby. My mate and I turn up absolutely bollocksed, borrow some boots and play. I make a break in the first five minutes, run twenty yards up the line and with no one near me, step into touch and throw up. It wasn’t the best game of Rugby I’ve ever played.
The pair of us then go straight back out on the piss with all the boys, still in the same clothes and end up in some party.
We finally get back to my mates house about 13.00 on the Sunday afternoon and his long suffering girlfriend gives me a lift home, with my mate in tow for moral support. When I walk in the house my missus doesn’t bat an eyelid although the first thing she asks is “where’s the milk”?
Doubt if I could get away with anything like that now but I might try it next weekend.


  1. So the hot blond ran off with the milk?


    Or you never even made it to the shop?

    I played footy the other day and a team mate kept running off the pitch to throw up. Not nice.

  2. Didn't get to the shop Mo.
    How's the battle for the train seat getting on you little kitten? Have you maimed him yet?