The weekend could really have been kinder. On Saturday I was awake before the cockerel rang, and nipped out to the shops to get some bread. There followed maybe the best omelette I’ve ever cooked. Light, fluffy, filled with cheese, on a couple of slices of buttery toast. I actively considered regurgitating it so I could eat it a second time. True story.
Then, because the Old Firm game was a mere four hours away, I didn’t go back to bed, and that was my first mistake. I instead sat up posting increasingly provocative comments on various fora (nice pluralising!), intimating my suspicions that Rangers fans were less than slavish in their pursuit of personal hygiene and that they bore some of the characteristics of female genitalia, and furthermore declaiming that Celtic would take them to task and emerge triumphant.
It has to be said, that’s not how it turned out. What actually happened was more along the lines of Celtic actually proceeding to lose the game, and doing so while playing like eleven men who have met maybe once before, at a beer festival in Dunstable nine years ago. By the final whistle, the omelette I had enjoyed so much seemed a lot longer than six hours in the past. It would appear that the league trophy is already on its way to the fiery depths of Ibrox, although I am trying to follow the advice of 80’s rocker-philosophers Journey. Don’t Stop Believin’, indeed.
Having singularly failed to witness a victory for my football team, I sat to watch Leicester Tigers take on Wasps. With the opposition shorn of their captain and most hated cunt, Lawrence Dallaglio, hopes were high. I won’t go into detail on what came to pass, suffice it to say the following: piss, fuck, shit, bastard.
Sunday was Sunday. It always fucking is.
We have started packing for our move, which will see us leave one part of Leicester for another, and gain an extra room into the bargain. The living room has a kitchen attached, which will mean I can whip up food without missing anything important on the telly. No more tricky timing to ensure that the roast attains the right level of golden-y-brown-ness with seconds to spare before The Apprentice, which has returned not a moment too soon, and has delivered a right shower of bell-ends who I fully expect to be issuing with fatwae (not sure about that one) before too long.
A particular highlight in Week One was the guy who claimed to be the victim of scapegoating over the incorrect pricing of a load of lobsters. This line of defence was stymied only by the fact that he had priced a load of lobsters incorrectly. Speaking as someone who was recently overjoyed to pick up a pair of monkfish tails for a tenner, I can only hope said bell-end moves to Leicester to work in our excellent fish market. Especially as Sir Alan Sugar graciously delivered him a welter of free time by firing his stupid, semi-bearded, double-barrelled, biscuit-game-playing face into oblivion.
My name is Paul Kelly. I am approaching 30. I live in Leicester with 
