There are times in life that we regret the things we don’t do more that those things that we do.

My blogging week started in the pub, the one located at the sign of the Lloyds Banking Group (a new location from a blogging perspective. They also do a quiz, although it’s on a Tuesday night so clashes with the quizzes at both The Pub* and The Green Dragon*).

Unusually for me it was both an early start and a late finish, as I normally do late finishes alone. As the night wore on the pub got emptier and emptier, and by the time it got to 11:30, there were just two of us left in the place. However, they were still serving, so that was fine (although the Jack Daniels looked like a urine sample – tasted ok though, I think they must have given me the Honey version by mistake).

It was about this time I started to muse on the lack of a last orders bell being rung, although there was actually a bell because I could see it. Now, I’m so used to being told to drink up and get my arse out of the pub before she kicks it out (Iron Man’s* latest squeeze has a great turn of phrase, at least when Black Widow* used to kick us out it was done with style and grace), that my view is no bell = still open. When it comes to last orders I’m like Pavlov’s Dog.

It got to past 1am and still no bell; and the manager was sitting at a table with his coat on playing with his phone (elbow keepy-uppy, it was very impressive). Although we didn’t risk another round, it was a full 30 minutes later when we actually left – at which point the manager promptly turned off the lights and locked up. Unbeknownst to myself, I was in a lock-in, left early and could (probably) still be there now!

I also got offered a job this week – well a sort of job at least. My old boss (now working for the Ministry in that there Londinium – that’s the Ministry of Justice, not Magic unfortunately) has a 12-month secondment role to shape the incoming Government’s policy, or something like that. I wasn’t really listening – she had me at protected salary, all expenses paid and regular home working.

I’ve worked down there before, for a number of years, on a similar contractual basis, although almost always in the city – not in the shitty part of town by the Queen’s house where the Ministry is located. This is still an appealing offer though, especially as the job is also based in Petty France – a wonderfully appropriate name if there ever was one.

Despite all of the appealing things that come with the job, I realised that I would struggle to get back home for Herr Flick’s 18:45 Monday spin class. The weekly lottery of ‘will my legs hold for the entire one mile walk home, or will I collapse into a steaming pile of dog shit that an environmentally conscious owner couldn’t be arsed to clean up’ has won the day. The option of becoming Sir Humphrey Appleby within five years has sadly passed me by.

Side Note: The tagging system for this blog recognises “Yes, Minister” as two separate tags, so I’ve had to tag it as “Yes Minister” instead. Apologies to all the pedants out there – these silicon valley types really need to consider 1980s British political comedy when embarking on a coding exercise (rant over).

Things have also moved on with the whole Lucy and Michelle situation. Once Lucy had returned from beating off boy racers with a shitty stick in First World Problems, I had an honest conversation with her (no choice really, she’s my other reader). The results showed a surprising level of maturity – from at least one of us. Lucy’s reaction was as follows:


In keeping with the theme of this blog: my reaction – PANIC ATTACK!! followed by some very understanding conversations.

I also turned down a free ticket to the Baggies vs Red Scousers clash this afternoon. The home team only went on to win 6-0, I’m out tonight (for a curry, which would have ideally linked to yesterday’s daily post) and my Sky+ box is to full to record Match of the Day! What are the chances of that happening, eh.

While Edith Piaf may have bleated on about her take on this whole scenario, I have a trophy case full of horses heads to remind me of my follies. I’m off to sleep with the fishes (sometimes I think comments like this could be the blurb on the back cover of the book of my life)

Footnote: For those of you who haven’t seen the film, and are therefore confused by this blog’s cultural references (Hulk* and The Divine Mr M* to probably name but two), Khartoum was the horse in The Godfather, both a present and punishment for refusing the unrefusable offer.

Credit where credit’s due, the Pavlov’s Dog joke came from Penzance*. I also need to mention The Grady Twins*, because if I don’t they’ll nag me more than Lucy does. I realise that the second example is a bit weak, but I don’t have Johnny Fontane under contract FFS. Observant readers will realise that either (a) this blog was published a good hour before kick-off; and/or (b) that was not the final score (dependent upon exactly when you are reading this). As I’ve said before, I never let the truth get in the way of a good story. I really turned down free tickets though. Finally, this weeks Lucy and Michelle skit is more than grounded in reality that usual, although the names have been changed to protect the innocent but not the terminally stupid.

*see Cast List


One thought on “Khartoum

  1. Pingback: My Book: Criminal Acts – Slaves of the High (Book One) | The Hempstead Man

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