Hi
How's it goin?
And so the weekend has landed, here's how my Saturday went.
Saturday February 5th 2011
I am fairly certain that the new washing machine is not working properly. Either this or I didn't set it up properly. Nah. It must be broken, that's the only logical explanation. Everything that comes out is absolutely soaking. Obviously it's gonna come out wet, but it's very wet. And dripping all over the floor.
This is worrying.
See?
Tonight Laura and I are going to a Burns Supper. Albeit a delayed one. Burns night was actually over a week ago. But I'm not complaining. It was for her friends pipe band. I had met these guys only once before and they were good banter.
I was told this was an informal thing, which threw me somewhat. For the better part of two weeks I annoyed Laura constantly about whether or not I should Kilt up!
But this was an informal Burns supper. What should I do? I didn't want to go and be the only guy there NOT wearing a kilt. Laura's mate said I could do whatever I wanted, kilt up or not kilt up. It's a question that has plagued man kind since the beginning of time.
Well, it's plagued scottish men.
Well, it's plagued scottish men.
Apparently the band were all going to be in kilts. So should I wear a kilt and blend in? What if someone think's I'm in the band, and force me up on stage to play something? It'll be like that scene out of American Pie 2 when Jim has to play the trumpet and pretend he is a retard.
If you can't see the video above then stop reading this crap on facebook and CLICK HERE
So for the majority of this week, I have been pre occupied about whether or not to kilt up! Then Saturday evening arrived, and the decision was made for me. I looked out my kilt, and discovered that my shirt had not been washed since the last time I wore it. At Kev and Alice's Wedding. And after the events of the wedding my shirt was not in a fit state. You see, dear reader, as I am sure you are aware, I am at times a bit of a drunken moron.
Just look at this for proof.
Or this.
Or even this.
The wedding of Kev and Alice was no exception to my drunken antics. At one point I was slapping Mark's ass with a tambourine. Although I'm not really sure why.
I'm not going to go into the rest of the wedding, as that's a story for another day. However, I will tell you how I ruined my shirt. It was late on in the evening, and Kev was outside having a cheeky fag. Earlier that day he told me he wasn't going to smoke, and if he did I was to stop him. This was a task I did not undertake lightly. As soon as I heard what Kev was doing, I put down my pint next to the three others I had waiting for me. (People kept buying me drinks, I'm not sure why, possibly to see what would happen for comedy value.) I stormed outside as fast as my drunken feet could carry me. However it had been raining outside, and the outside decking was very slippery. And as I stormed outside determined to stop my friend from smoking, I slipped. I didn't just slip a little bit though. I slipped in such an over the top comedy manner. I went flying through the air. I honestly believe that time slowed down and I was moving in slo-mo. At one point as I was in mid air, I thought that perhaps I had finally discovered my latent super power. Maybe I had the ability to fly. Maybe this was my grand moment where my powers would manifest themselves, and I would fly off into the night, to become KILT MAN. But then Gravity took over, I did not fly off, and I still remember being in the air and thinking,
"Well this can't be good."
I came crashing down to the ground with a thunderous thunder. I heard laughing, lots of laughing. I saw pointing, lots of pointing. Then the pointing and laughing combined. People were pointing, and laughing, at me. In my drunken state I searched my brain for some way out of this situation. There must be someway to keep some smidgen of dignity and self respect in this situation. Then I had an idea. I would just stay on the ground.
I just lay there, on the ground in a, "I'm just lying on the deck to chill out" sort of way.
I don't think that was the vibe I was giving off, but it was what I was aiming for. Obviously the deck was very wet, and a bit muddy. Which in turn transferred that mud onto my brand new white shirt. Which now had a slightly brown motif to it. And was ripped.
The rest of that night is somewhat of a drunken blur. And I had forgotten all about my drunken stumble and ruining of my kilt shirt until the very moment I opened up my kilt bag to put on my kilt shirt.
So back to the present day, my decision was made for me, my kilt shirt was ruined. Yes I had other shirts I could have worn, but I felt this was destiny telling me not to wear a kilt. And I'm glad I didn't. I would have been incredibly over dressed. The only people in Kilts were the band, and most of them changed out of them after they played a couple of tunes.
The night was being held in a social clubs function. The last time I was in this particular building was for a wake. This visit was definitely more cheery. It was also incredibly cheap. I drank. A lot.
The purpose of the night was a fundraiser for the band. They had food included in the ticket price and then a raffle, you got one free raffle ticket upon entry and you had to pay for more if you wanted. In an attempt to impress Laura's friends I had donated a raffle prize. A gift voucher for Vincents. I was tempted to give them a copy or two of my book, but I have to pay for them.
Myself and Laura both bought raffle tickets, and I am gutted to say that neither of us won anything.
WTF?
I donated a prize!
The least they could do was fix it so I could win something.
We decided to drown our sorrows in Jaeger Bombs.
Several of them in fact. It was at this point that the night starts to become a bit hazy.
I asked on facebook if any of my pal's were out tonight. This sparked a massive debate.
So my Auntie Pat think's I'm a gay. This is something that my Mum once thought also. When I first got the job on the QE2, one of the first things she said to me was,
"There's a lot of gay boys on ship's Andrew."
And when I came home on my first leave, Mum was on the phone to someone while I was in sitting in the same room. This was the conversation.
"Yeah, Andrew's been home for about a week now, my ironing has tripled and he's been out drinking every night. No he hasn't come home with a girlfriend......... or a boyfriend. At least that would be something."
Then she glared at me.
Maybe this is something I should bring up with my hetrosexual rep at School.
Anyway, back to the night. We left the venue around 1ish and decided to head home. This sparked a massive debate about which way to go for a taxi. I suggested we walk towards my house and try and flag one down on the way. She said we should walk towards town and get one at a taxi rank.
I won. We were staying at my house. So it's my rules.
I will admit that my memory of this is incredibly hazy, but this is what happened as best as I can remember it.
About 3 minutes into our walk towards my place. Laura started moaning that her feet were soar because of her shoes.
Fooking women and shoes. I'll never get it.
I gave her a piggy back for about 500 yards during which time two taxi's past us by. Clearly not stopping because we appeared to be too drunkards staggering home and no taxi driver would be stupid enough to take us. I then stopped the piggy backing in an attempt to look more sober and deserving to passing taxi's. Laura continued to moan, about her feet. After another five minutes of this moaning I couldn't take anymore. I gave her my shoes. She walked home in my shoes and I walked home in my socks.
Laura if you are reading this, (and I know you are) I gave you my shoes because I am a very nice, sweet, kind man. And since I am such a nice, sweet, kind man, and I gave you my shoes to walk home in, you must promise NOT to read the next paragraph.
Promise?
Ok. good.
Dear reader.
I did not give Laura my shoes to be nice and sweet. I gave her my shoes as it was the only way to get her to stop fooking moaning! Fooking women and shoes. You're all fooking nuts!
Ok Laura you can read on now.
I'm not going to go into the rest of the wedding, as that's a story for another day. However, I will tell you how I ruined my shirt. It was late on in the evening, and Kev was outside having a cheeky fag. Earlier that day he told me he wasn't going to smoke, and if he did I was to stop him. This was a task I did not undertake lightly. As soon as I heard what Kev was doing, I put down my pint next to the three others I had waiting for me. (People kept buying me drinks, I'm not sure why, possibly to see what would happen for comedy value.) I stormed outside as fast as my drunken feet could carry me. However it had been raining outside, and the outside decking was very slippery. And as I stormed outside determined to stop my friend from smoking, I slipped. I didn't just slip a little bit though. I slipped in such an over the top comedy manner. I went flying through the air. I honestly believe that time slowed down and I was moving in slo-mo. At one point as I was in mid air, I thought that perhaps I had finally discovered my latent super power. Maybe I had the ability to fly. Maybe this was my grand moment where my powers would manifest themselves, and I would fly off into the night, to become KILT MAN. But then Gravity took over, I did not fly off, and I still remember being in the air and thinking,
"Well this can't be good."
I came crashing down to the ground with a thunderous thunder. I heard laughing, lots of laughing. I saw pointing, lots of pointing. Then the pointing and laughing combined. People were pointing, and laughing, at me. In my drunken state I searched my brain for some way out of this situation. There must be someway to keep some smidgen of dignity and self respect in this situation. Then I had an idea. I would just stay on the ground.
I just lay there, on the ground in a, "I'm just lying on the deck to chill out" sort of way.
I don't think that was the vibe I was giving off, but it was what I was aiming for. Obviously the deck was very wet, and a bit muddy. Which in turn transferred that mud onto my brand new white shirt. Which now had a slightly brown motif to it. And was ripped.
The rest of that night is somewhat of a drunken blur. And I had forgotten all about my drunken stumble and ruining of my kilt shirt until the very moment I opened up my kilt bag to put on my kilt shirt.
So back to the present day, my decision was made for me, my kilt shirt was ruined. Yes I had other shirts I could have worn, but I felt this was destiny telling me not to wear a kilt. And I'm glad I didn't. I would have been incredibly over dressed. The only people in Kilts were the band, and most of them changed out of them after they played a couple of tunes.
The night was being held in a social clubs function. The last time I was in this particular building was for a wake. This visit was definitely more cheery. It was also incredibly cheap. I drank. A lot.
The purpose of the night was a fundraiser for the band. They had food included in the ticket price and then a raffle, you got one free raffle ticket upon entry and you had to pay for more if you wanted. In an attempt to impress Laura's friends I had donated a raffle prize. A gift voucher for Vincents. I was tempted to give them a copy or two of my book, but I have to pay for them.
Myself and Laura both bought raffle tickets, and I am gutted to say that neither of us won anything.
WTF?
I donated a prize!
The least they could do was fix it so I could win something.
We decided to drown our sorrows in Jaeger Bombs.
Several of them in fact. It was at this point that the night starts to become a bit hazy.
I asked on facebook if any of my pal's were out tonight. This sparked a massive debate.
So my Auntie Pat think's I'm a gay. This is something that my Mum once thought also. When I first got the job on the QE2, one of the first things she said to me was,
"There's a lot of gay boys on ship's Andrew."
And when I came home on my first leave, Mum was on the phone to someone while I was in sitting in the same room. This was the conversation.
"Yeah, Andrew's been home for about a week now, my ironing has tripled and he's been out drinking every night. No he hasn't come home with a girlfriend......... or a boyfriend. At least that would be something."
Then she glared at me.
Maybe this is something I should bring up with my hetrosexual rep at School.
Anyway, back to the night. We left the venue around 1ish and decided to head home. This sparked a massive debate about which way to go for a taxi. I suggested we walk towards my house and try and flag one down on the way. She said we should walk towards town and get one at a taxi rank.
I won. We were staying at my house. So it's my rules.
I will admit that my memory of this is incredibly hazy, but this is what happened as best as I can remember it.
About 3 minutes into our walk towards my place. Laura started moaning that her feet were soar because of her shoes.
Fooking women and shoes. I'll never get it.
I gave her a piggy back for about 500 yards during which time two taxi's past us by. Clearly not stopping because we appeared to be too drunkards staggering home and no taxi driver would be stupid enough to take us. I then stopped the piggy backing in an attempt to look more sober and deserving to passing taxi's. Laura continued to moan, about her feet. After another five minutes of this moaning I couldn't take anymore. I gave her my shoes. She walked home in my shoes and I walked home in my socks.
Laura if you are reading this, (and I know you are) I gave you my shoes because I am a very nice, sweet, kind man. And since I am such a nice, sweet, kind man, and I gave you my shoes to walk home in, you must promise NOT to read the next paragraph.
Promise?
Ok. good.
Dear reader.
I did not give Laura my shoes to be nice and sweet. I gave her my shoes as it was the only way to get her to stop fooking moaning! Fooking women and shoes. You're all fooking nuts!
Ok Laura you can read on now.
And so ends another fun filled Saturday night in the life of Andy G. Join me tomorrow at the crack of noon, when I tell you...
The Tale of Last Sunday: Hangover sandwiches, smelling of poo and a mega cookie.
The Tale of Last Sunday: Hangover sandwiches, smelling of poo and a mega cookie.
That's All For Now
Until Next Time
Have A Nice
Andy G
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If you do subscribe then maybe one day I will some up with a funny blog title with YOUR name in it. Wouldn't that be lovely?
