The road to mandolin 

My day yesterday was mainly filled with sleep, illness, sleep, more illness, intolerance to light, food and speaking. I was hung over to fuck! I only went out for a couple of drinks with a mate and ended up hanging one on. God knows how many doubles (I stopped counting when I finished me peanuts). Mind you, I did wake up to a kitchen filled with fried rice everywhere, a Chinese of dubious intent in a bowl on me kitchen bench and a stray shoe on me kitchen floor. My ragged throat was down to wretching the half heated prawns up I’m sure! Anyway! A lost day (pleased the weather was shite too) then badminton at seven in the evening with me bro.  

Now to say I wasn’t really looking forward to this game would be an understatement to the magnatude of Michael Fish’s, “their ain’t no hurricane” I wanted to die when I got in the car, I wanted to die when I got in the gym, I wanted to kill everyone that was making a noise around me, but I had to grit my teeth (they felt bendy) and get on with it. With every point I gained, a fresh pint of sweat ran down my back (if I licked myself, I would have tasted JD) needless to say, after the embarrassing beating I took the last game, I drubbed him in this one. Winning all my matches as quick as I could so I could get some fluids back in me.

Right, onto the main topic for this entry! I’ve been around the north looking for a cookery implement (a mandolin) and this odyssey has taken me to a few different towns within shooting distance of asghanistan. Cramlington first, now anyone who dares to say my home town (yes I take the piss out of Ashington, but it’s still where I was born) suffers from obesity! I’ve heard this crap for a long time and today I have finally finished my study of the outlying areas of rotundness. As I wandered along the mall, the amount of sugar abuse I witnessed beggared belief. Kids, adults, pensioners (even a fat whippet) it was not the best that town could show.i would have guessed at every third adult, and second child were over the limit for stretchy pants! Morpeth comes next! (Oh I forgot the smell of raljex and anjipan mixed with apathy and aged skin in Cramlington) so as I ventured into the metropolis that is Morpeth (a market town?) I had to breath in, seriously, the car parks are getting larger I’m sure to accommodate the more comfortable walking frame for the old and infirm! Again the centre of town seems to be in a dip! The locals not able to venture out into the side streets for Gravity rolling them back in. I know it’s a bit harsh, but as I said, I’m sick of people popping at the easy target of Ashington (not as easy as the other Wimbledon who can’t run away or hide behind a fence without their “Gunts” being spied). Of course there are other portly pedestrians available so please don’t feel left out if you aren’t on this blog……yet. The crux of this work of fiction (non) is not to berate the slightly larger frame (my trousers don’t fit anymore and I only got them at Christmas) it’s to make the more affluent naysayers from the outer colonies see that Ashington isn’t a place that should be ridiculed lightly (no pun intended) but an introspective look at themselves should stop the one upmanship that seems to be doing the rounds. Take this in the spirit of anachy and humour, you know I’m mad and love you all. 

  

Published by dec247h

Ex soldier, father, party girl and generally nice guy taking time out to do as he pleases! one day i will make it back to the UK, but i aint in a hurry!

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