Big fan of the Saturdays

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…

Advertisements

karaoke

Positive thinking. Things are good. By the bathroom mirror I notice stronger more defined muscles in the arms, a lesser belly, broader shoulders. All will fade once the effects of yomping up mountains carrying camping equipment wears off (or for that matter eating at the Wellington followed by munching an entire fruit-loaf while watching England) but for now OPTIMISM and FEELING GOOD are orders of the day.

(Inserted thought, though. Did sit in the Wellington next to the jukebox which inevitably means the usual selection of songs. I finished on Have A Nice Day which is not my preferred choice. Drained by pint when the warbling women restarted with the tinny beats and “off” production. I’m sounding like my father moaning about rappers on childrens’ television back many years ago; he said once-upon-a-time the moon landings were carried live, now it’s all….well, there was a term for people it may be best not repeated….If I am sharing the same disquiet over musical tastes it’s not from the same social commentary perspective.)

Specifics, though. Devil in the detail. Damn TV Licencing people sent me a letter during my break (do their “chase up team” not know my budgeting starts and ends with payday weekends? What good is every third-week for me?). Powergen, e-on, buggery sods from the bank (they lured me into complacency, now their letters go almost directly from letterbox to shredder).

Goodness, though. That’s the spirit. Sunshine, more days off work (though, ah yes, must buy breakfast cereal to avoid continuing the microwaved-cheese-on-warm-floppy-bread habit). And this Saturday I am off to watch the mighty Burscough against Frickley (so I replace the West Highland Line with a muddled jaunt across Manchester and Leeds commuter routes). FC United in two weeks time, never before has the promise of a day in Bury seemed so appealing….

Must concentrate, though. Could have taken the leccy reading and done it all here, on-line. CDs to review, I could send them off from the Conty tonight if the laptop is repaired. Now there are things to do, do them.