Unless a repressed memory of offering fisticuffs to the widest tighthead prop in Orrell has yet to move to the centre of my mind, I think that’s all the flashbacks from last night sorted. Good old fashioned Saturday, then. The paper, a brew, Soccer Saturday, and fathoming out what it is about the side of shampoo bottles that makes them such decent reading material while needing-to-do-what-needs-to-be-done-after-a-night-on-the-real-ale. Oh come on, I’m not spelling it out.
But yes, here is the old friend reunion. Mr Hangover. And like fingerprints, hangovers are unique, and can be used to link anyone with a crime scene. Like giving a group of strangers the impression I was dancing because of certain medications. Or maybe as a consequence of not taking necessary medications. Or drinking Corona.
Saturday mornings have long been my favoured day of rest. No more family home routines, of ‘big shops’ of legend and Going Live! and Des Lynam on Grandstand. Or the High School routine of bopping around town for endless hours on end, which on some occasions meant hanging outside the covered market topping up cans of cherry coke with vodka hidden in a paper bag. Classy lad, I was, at times.
And now it’s the morning for looking at BT Bills with a sense of bemusement and confusion, of aiming kitchen cleaner at ovens with the cap unmoved and wondering why nothing is coming out. For Sundays are the days of dust chasing and sock drawer sorting and washing-pile fathoming. Champion the Sabbath, I say. Listen to the Now Show repeat on Radio 4 (except when Mitch Benn is on. When he starts, flick to 5Live. I don’t like Mitch Benn. At all. I may have said this earlier while giving it to the warbling Joe ). Slump on the sofa with the Guardian and a brew. Draw up rough proposals on how BBC schedulers would be able to adequately promote live coverage of New Zealand’s World Cup match against Paraguay.
Not a time for thinking, much, Saturday. Unless you have something constructive to do, like get married or somesuch. Finding your way to Blackburn for whatever reason, as was the case with three Scouse-accented lads on the train this morning. “Ere, y’are, this must be Preston, like; it looks like Sunderland, ay, blud?”, as one of them commented.
Saturdays can be the ace day of the week, the cool brother, the decent teacher, that cheeky tap-in goal from the guy who has been hitherto the subject of every negative chant from rail platform to the stands. If Monday is the nightmare to top all – the RBS banker of the week, if you will – then let Saturday be the perfect dream. Well, unless that dream is broken by the piercing shrill of the mobile phone at 7am and the female voice of reason reminding you about the wedding later that day…