Tuesday, 21 July 2009

The perfect weekend

The perfect weekend kicked off early with my Wife’s Birthday on Thursday. As is the norm in our house, I’ve been finding post it notes all round the house with messages of what she wanted present wise. I even woke up on Wednesday morning with one stuck on my forehead! So, Wednesday afternoon, I traipsed into Cardiff and bought her numerous DVD’s, perfume, a £35 fucking vase from Next, Nintendo DS games for her and my Daughter, flowers and a box of after eight mints.
By the time I got home on Thursday after work the mints were gone. Fucking witches.
Out on Thursday night for a curry and a couple of drinks and then back home for the best two and a half minutes she’s likely to have this year.
Day off Friday so popped up to see my Mum, Daughter in tow. I’ve been mates with the same gang of boys since we were in primary school together and one of them, Dave, has just become a proud Father of a little boy called Charlie. Went to see him for an hour and shot the breeze about the good old days.
Dave is one of life’s jammy bastards. Left school with no qualifications and now has the best job of the lot of us. Great singing voice. Good looking. He’s a right twat.
I grew up in a little village where there was one pub, one phone box, one post box, one bus stop and one corner shop. The corner shop was run by Mr Singh and his family. Every day, we would all pop in there, usually at different times, and greet Mr Singh with the same song. “Mr Singh, sing a song, make it simple to last the whole day long”. I’m sure you know the tune and will be singing it to yourself all day.
Mr Singh always smiled but was probably thinking what a bunch of pricks we were, especially after hearing it for the tenth time that day.
Mr Singh also had a stunning Daughter who was seventeen; we were all in our mid to late twenties at the time. One night Dave is walking home and Mr Singh’s Daughter and her mate are walking home at the same time. Dave starts chatting away and when he gets to his house invites her in for a cuppa. Five minutes later, Mr Singh’s Daughters mate walks past the corner shop where Mr Singh is waiting on the doorstep for them.
“Where’s my Daughter?” Mr Singh asks.
“In Dave’s house”, Daughter’s mate replies.
Now Dave’s parents were quite liberal and didn’t mind him bringing female company home as long as they didn’t scream the house down. When you walked in through Dave’s front door there was a living room to the left and Dining room to the right and straight in front of the door was the staircase. The doorbell rings and Dave’s Mother, who was watching TV, opens the door to be confronted by Mr Singh and his whole family. By whole family I mean, Wife, Son, two other Daughters, Two Brothers and wives, Parents and a few hangers on. The conversation goes like this:
DM (Dave’s Mum), “Hello Mr Singh, how can I help you?”
MS (Mr Singh), “I’ve come for my Daughter”.
DM “I’m sorry, I’m not sure what you mean?”
MS “My Daughter, she’s here with Dave”.
DM “Which one, your eldest?”
MS “Yes”.
DM “I don’t think she’s here Mr Singh, she’s only seventeen and Dave’s twenty eight”.
MS “Her friend just told me that she came home with Dave”.
DM “I think her friend must be mistaken, I don’t think Dave’s even home yet”.
MS “No, she’s here”.
DM, Turning round and calling up the stairs, “Dave, are you up there?”
Dave, walking to the top of the stairs, stark naked with a semi on, in full view of Mr Singh and entourage, “Whaaaaaaaaaaaat, Oops”, before quickly disappearing only for Mr Singh’s Daughter to appear twenty seconds later, clothes in disarray, readying herself for the biggest bollocking of her life.
MS “Dave’s Mum, you and your family are banned from the shop for life”.
Oh, the good old days.
Woke up Saturday with another post it note on my forehead as it was our wedding anniversary on Sunday. Played Golf, pottered around the house then went for a meal with my Wife, Daughter and my Wife’s friends and kids. We went to a new Tapas restaurant and had a really good time. I picked up the drinks bill which came to £120 because that’s the type of guy I am. Got home about ten and Mrs Rubbish intimated that she fancied round two. I must admit so did I so after hearing the bedroom door close I was straight out of the front door and down the pub to watch the Amir Khan fight. Unfortunately he didn’t win in round two but it was a good tear up and he was a deserved winner.
My Daughter has been learning Spanish in school and her teacher must come from Barcelona because most of the lessons seem to involve stories about the City. My Daughter asked if we could go there one day and my Missus also fancies it. I’ve been there three times on lad’s weekends and have never seen more than the inside of five bars, one nightclub, the Nou Camp and a brothel. So, for our anniversary, I bought my Wife and Daughter a five day break there. It also includes a couple of trips to Tarragona which is a cracking place to go drinking and somewhere else that I can’t be bothered to look up. I’ve now accumulated more brownie points than I can shake a shitty stick at.
Sunday afternoon was another mates, Sons, Christening. We pitched up at the Church at one and it was like stepping back in time. All the boys I used to play Rugby with and get pissed out of my tiny brain with were there. The Vicar, sensing the Christening had now become a peripheral event, sped through the service and we were in the pub by one thirty.
Years ago, when we were all playing Rugby and in our prime, Sunday’s were the biggest day. We used to have a Super Sunday Cider Session in our local which always became a messy event. There used to be a happy hour there until two O’clock and at five to two the bar was heaving with everyone trying to get a last cheap pint. Many a time I’d be sitting down at five past two drinking cider out of a vase or a jam jar. It was a classy pub. Anyhow, before anyone could say “I’ve got work in the morning”, we were all on cider. My Wife and Daughter disappeared about fiveish, as did most of the Wives and children and I staggered home about nine in the evening, totally wrecked.
A fitting end to the perfect weekend.


  1. This comment has been removed by the author.

  2. You've only confirmed one of my worst fears about marriage. Not only are there no "actual" round twos, but the one and only round lasts 2 minutes.

    That's it then. I suppose I'll be a mistress or nothing at all.

    Hysterical as always.

  3. Two and a half minutes. What, was that in an advert break? It was, I know it.

  4. He was 28 and she was 17? In these parts, you'd go to jail for that.

  5. My brother used to play rugby as well and as his younger sister I was more than happy to have him babysit me with his rugby buddies: a jolly bunch to say the least. I miss those days ... Sigh ... Okay, I'm over it.

    Dave isn't still available, is he?


  6. Being first, wanna wish you happy b'day to your wife. "Belated happy b'day". Your weekend is looking so busy right!! You can also opt for poker games as well as casino games.


  7. Two and a half minutes? You are my fucking hero.

  8. Okay, now I'm on a roll, because this is the second post in a row where I've understood the whole thing. I love it; I'm going to start calling those more fortunate than myself a right twat.

    Why do I suspect your wife is something of a saint? 2 1/2 minutes, indeed.

    Oh - and I am SO going to start using the sticky note hint thing. Absolutely brilliant.

  9. Nothing wrong with 17-year olds, no matter how old you are.