Category: Sorrow

Avatar Brioche: still an afterthought

Last week I bought a big bag of brioche buns for breakfast.

On Thursday and Friday I got some out and had them.

This morning, I was looking for breakfast in a kitchen that was increasingly looking breakfast-free, when inside the white Lego head I found the rest of the brioche rolls.

I didn’t think I was the kind of man who’d buy some tasty French treats and then forget about them, but it seems that all these years on I’ve learned nothing. Brioche is still an afterthought.

Luckily they hadn’t gone off because brioche keeps for ages, so I ate them anyway.

Avatar Dear Beans… My Sink Shambles

Dear Beans,

I have a problem I need your assistance with.

Recently I went through a series of unfortunate circumstances in my bathroom (wa-hey (what?!)) which warranted a few posts, an award-winning film starring Robert Downey Jr and a nationwide book tour which culminated in worldwide fame and acclaim. Since then, well, I have tried to duplicate the dizzy heights of ‘Tap Saga’ but no matter what I do it’s just not the same.

I mean how can you replicate the thrill of smashing a sink with your own bare hands then spending months trying to find a replacement only for it to turn up smashed courtesy of Parcelforce? How can you hope to rustle up the same raw emotion as super gluing yourself to a sink for good merit? What kind of activity can deliver wanton exasperation on the same level as countless trips to B & Q because I had forgotten to purchase the correct pipes?

It’s a pointless exercise. During the day I find myself drawn towards the idea of breaking someone else’s bathroom suite. When I walk into the toilets at work I have to stop myself from smashing the carefully crafted porcelain shapes and bowls with a makeshift claw hammer, put together using (I don’t know, what do IT people use to make stuff, ummm, microchips, yeah, that’s believable, nifty!) microchips and circuit boards. Even now writing this letter I’m developing a cold sweat knowing the wash basin next door is fully-functional yet all it would take is one swift kick to the ajax and it would come tumbling down.

Please offer your advice in a thrilling manner.

Kind Regards

Kevin “Kevindo Menendez” Hill

Avatar Dear Beans… My Car Is Cursed!

Dear Beans,

I have a problem I need your assistance with.

As previously mentioned in a previous post, I haven’t been driving very long. Even so I attempted to remember how to correctly to perform the reverse bay park manoeuvre and it kept me awake last night for at least 25 minutes. I think I got it in the end. That is not my concern though. What concerns me is the alarming rate of ambulances that I come across when driving in my car.

I don’t think I would be exaggerating by saying that every single journey to and from work I come across an ambulance, whether just driving around or pushing its way through traffic with its sirens blaring. In fact, it is a common occurrence that when driving with Reuben we are more inclined to see the latter, which brings us to the obvious conclusion that my car is in some way cursed. “How can it be cursed,” I hear you say, then I wonder how I can hear you when my hearing has been damaged for the last 16 years or so.  The fact is I can’t hear what you say so I’m pretending that I can.

Do I have a cursed car? How else would you explain it? Whether or not my vehicle is directly affecting the mortality rate in the North East, it’s still particularly worrying that one is constantly in my rear view mirror. There are days when I ponder whether to take public transport instead to avoid the consequences of my actions. I don’t want to be responsible for accidents, for deaths, for common misdemeanours ending in tragedies. If all of this is on my head then what should I do? Would the same thing happen if I had a different car, or a different vehicle altogether?

Please offer your advice in a thrilling manner.

Kind regards

Ian “Mac Mac Mac Mac – Adam – Liam – Neil” McDougal

Avatar Terrible news

I don’t know how to tell you this. It’s too tragic for words.

In some ways we saw it coming, but still, when I walked down Church Road and saw what had happened, I couldn’t believe my eyes. Sexatronic has gone.

The sorry sight of a post-Sexatronic world

 

Once the home of Bum Chin Bollock Neck McGee, and then – gloriously immortalising the star of one of The Papples’ most inventive album tracks – home to Sexatronic herself, the stylish and cosmopolitan plywood sheeting has been removed after five years’ service and has been replaced with these unimaginative shop units.

We’ll never forget you, Sexatronic.

Avatar Older

Older, yes. I reach the end of this week battered and bruised by the harsh mistress of ageing. My face is lined, my hair grey and thinning, my walking stick arriving in the post tomorrow. The ravages of time leave me enfeebled.

But what has my additional age gained me? Insight, perhaps. I have thought Ian particularly odd since last October, his habits inexplicable, his voice barely intelligible, his strange looks, mannerisms and alarming physical spasms highly distracting. But now that I, too, am 31 all of this is clear. It all makes sense. I won’t try to explain it here but from the other side of 30, from the perspective of an age ending in a one, these things take on meaning.

Has it gained me wisdom? No. I ate pizza on Wednesday night and had it again on Thursday morning, a car crash of poor meal planning that could have been entirely avoided. So much for ageing.

Avatar My secret tragedy

I haven’t told you about this before, but it’s about time I did. When Kev visited a couple of weeks ago we ended up talking about it and my terrible sadness was impossible to disguise. I can’t live this lie any longer.

A while ago now, I was engaged to be married. We were so happy together, so perfect for each other. I couldn’t imagine anything could come between us. I was her man and she was my bear. (She was a grizzly bear, you see.) But on the day of our wedding, just minutes before the ceremony started, she left me, running away down the street in her bridal dress. I was distraught.

You may find this hard to believe, but thankfully Kev has stepped in and provided the following sketch of that fateful moment, so you don’t have to think very hard to imagine it. In those days, as you can see, I looked a bit like Jeremy Beadle, so all in all this is a chapter of my life I’d rather forget.

Chris's Wedding Day

Avatar Best Fwends

Friendships are supposed to last a lifetime. Friendships are the glue that hold together the people you know and without them we’d all be strangers wearing sunglasses trying to buy scouring pads. Nobody would expect a friendship to last a mere 24 hours and yet for it to mean so much.

Juggy was more than a friend. In the short space of time that we spent together it was obvious that he was more than a jug too. Juggy transcended the norm and exceeded all expectations.

What started out as a clearing out exercise at Kevin’s house, where he was sifting some carpets and buffing the parapets when I arrived, quickly turned into one of the moments that stay with you forever. Juggy met me with a high five and shortly after were cruising down to Stockport, singing along to the mix CD Kev had made when he wasn’t milking the rafters.

Juggy loved to sing. Not only this but he encouraged us to join in. He was the life and soul of the party, and when we actually reached the party he also became the loul and sife of the party too. So it was with a heavy heart that, learning of someone’s need for a jug, I handed him over to serve a greater cause. It was clear that it was destiny that Juggy came with us in order to help another’s plight and without him that person would have had to go to Wilkinsons to buy one. It was too much. I only have this photo to remember him by but, my God, he was one hell of a guy.

Here’s to you, Juggy. Salute!

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