It is fair to say that I am no Alan Titchmarsh. I don’t like gardening. I don’t own any gardening equipment. I don’t own a lawnmower, a spade or even a bucket. I do, however, live in a house where there is a garden with grass and an ivy hedge.
I have been living in this house for 8 months now, so needless to say things have become a little overgrown. In fact the lawn outside the front of the house is starting to resemble the African outback. I think I saw a lion hiding within prairie on my walk to work this morning.
I could easily ignore this situation. I could let the ivy hedge grow to an extent it takes over the wall, then the road, before engulfing the city of Bath, and eventually immersing the entire world in greenery. If I left the lawn, no doubt, it too would get out of control, growing all the way to the moon. Would I care? No. Sadly, my neighbours would. I live in an area where people cut their lawn to resemble a carpet. They twitch from behind curtains whenever somebody walks down the street. They keep fancy looking dogs, which are probably fed Caesar food and haven’t seen a tin of Pal in their life. Therefore, I think if I did allow the garden to grow and grow into the horticultural equivalent of Rik Waller, my neighbours would get a little pissed off.
So what to do? The everyday man would go down to Homebase, buy a lawnmower and a hedge trimmer, before getting to work on a Sunday afternoon. Anyone who has read my blog during its decade of existence, however, will know that I am not your everyday man. I am a lazy man. Therefore, in the words of Homer Simpson, I have taken the attitude “Can’t someone else do it?” Unlike in that particular episode of The Simpsons, I don’t think the garbage men will do my gardening. Firstly, because this is real life and The Simpsons is a cartoon. Secondly, because the garage men, well, refuse collectors, struggle to even take away basic household waste in Bath. Most of it ends up scattered down the pavement on bin day. That rant is for another day, though. Therefore, as the garbage man wouldn’t do it, I had to find a gardener. The natural answer would be to call Alan Titchmarsh.
Sadly, I was unable to find Alan Titchmarsh, despite looking on the internet, and believe me, I did look. Instead, I contacted my letting agency and asked for help. They gave me the mobile number of a man called Jack. Jack is apparently a gardener who can do some work for me at a reasonable rate. Unfortunately, Jack didn’t pick up this mobile phone when I rang. I am therefore left with overgrown foliage and no doubt annoyed neighbours, on the verge of putting a letter through my letter box, asking me to sort this whole mess out. Sigh. At least it gave me something to blog about.
I can’t believe it! I’ve won something! Yesterday, I entered a competition ran by the Leeds United Commercial account on Twitter. Today I am told I have won a Leeds United flag. I now need to persuade Claire to let me hang it up in our house.
Given the fact I never win anything, it’s a little ironic that when I finally do, Leeds United are in a spell of not winning a game for what seems like months.
If my Twitter entry seems familiar, it’s because I ripped it off from an old Cola-Cola advert.
At what age is too old to collect stickers? 12? 16? 18? The answer: you’re never too old, stupid!
Sam and I have set ourselves a mission to each complete the Panini 2014 World Cup Sticker Album. It’s a long shot, but let’s face it, there’s more chance of me finishing the collection than England winning the World Cup.
Along with my collection of train models and magazines, I am sure Claire is delighted with the challenge her fiancé has undertaken. She’ll be especially happy when 100 (yes, one hundred) packets of stickers turn up in a few days. I accidentally ordered them from Amazon.
OK, I admit it – I watch a lot of shit TV. Tonight’s offering of television tripe was “Hercules the Human Bear”. Yes, that was a real program, made by real people, who were paid real money. It was on Channel Five, which is hardly a surprise.
I didn’t actually watch it live. David at work recommended it to me, so I got it on Sky’s On Demand thingy. I think the fact I went out of my way to actually download the damn thing, in high definition, probably makes the situation even worse.
I haven’t watched the entire program yet. It is quite long and I had to stop it to watch the football and preserve which little sanity I do have. I will, of course, continue to watch it later in the week, ideally subjecting Claire to it. She’s working a long day today, so is oblivious to the strange thing I have downloaded onto our Sky box.
I am sure you’re all very interested what the bear thing was about. Quite simply, it was about a man who kept a bear. Not a teddy bear. Not a koala or some shit miniature bear, you can keep in the garden shed. No, this was a fully grown bear. It was massive.
The program followed a crazy Scotsman, who wrestled bears for money (the natural sport in Scotland, I believe). After fighting a bear, he found out he actually liked the animals, so adopted one from a zoo. He fed it cooked breakfasts, which it ate at the dinner table with the man’s wife. They also got drunk together in front of the fire. Happy families.
One day, the Scot took the bear out for a walk. The bear had to wear a lead, like a dog. I don’t think his wife was on a leash. These walks weren’t exactly down the street to the corner shop, picking up a packet of fags and a newspaper. They were treks up Scottish mountains and into vast lakes. Yes, the bear could swim too, like some giant, hairy, bear-shaped fish. I think the bear must have become fed up with being taken around with rope around its neck, as it ran away. The man cried.
This triggered a man hunt, or rather bear hunt, involving the local policeman, a few local nutters and the army. It was at about this point that I stopped watching. They had found and tranquilised the animal, wrapped it up in a net and were flying off with it, dangling from a helicopter.
What will happen next? Will the bear survive? Will its owner ever get to fight it again? Will the bear have to go to Alcoholics Anonymous? I can’t wait to find out.
This weekend I took on the mighty force of the retail industry. I am pleased to report that the result was positive. A victory for the little man.
Summer is coming, and now we have a garden, we thought we would get something we can sit outside on and soak up all those British sunshine rays. A trip to Argos beckoned and a table and chair set purchased. Upon arriving home, the said table and chair were unpacked, only to find that somebody had beaten us to it! Half the bloody stuff had been opened by a previous customer! It also appeared whoever had tampered with our table and chairs had already lost or eaten the screws, instruction manual and other bits that come with the set. I don’t want to sound fussy, but those screws and bits are essential for holding the table together. Without them the table would fall apart, not that we would be able to put it together anyway, as the instructions weren’t included!
And breathe!
I am sure that Argos would have been more than happy to exchange the half missing table for one fully equipped with accessories and instructions. However, it weighed a tonne and I for one wasn’t prepared to cart it back all the way back to the store! I picked up the trusty Batphone. I was tempted to ring 999, but thought against it and instead dialled the emergency number on the receipt. A friendly, but unhelpful lady informed me that I would have to return it to the shop. Bollocks to that. It wasn’t my fault Argos had sold us second hand equipment without our knowledge and with missing bits…
And breathe!
Remembering all I learnt from Anne Robinson, while watching Watchdog, during my childhood, I asked to speak to the manager of the Bath branch. After waiting on hold for what seemed like a lifetime, although in reality was probably just three minutes, I spoke to the man in charge, who kindly (and rightly) offered to send somebody to the house to swap the table for a brand spanking new one. It was nice of him and a better offer than the lass on the phone who suggested I pay for a taxi to take the stuff back, and get the fare back in the form of store credit.
The next morning, some bloke from Argos turned up with a replacement table, parasol and chair, which he swapped for the crap one. He was apologetic and asked if there was anything else he could do. Stupidly I missed the opportunity to ask him to assemble to table for me! Doh! Oh well, after about half an hour of crying and swearing at an Allen key, it was built. We can now sit outside in the hot heat. Just a shame it’s pissed it down ever since.
About Me
So you stumbled across my blog. No doubt after searching for something bizarre on Google. Before you hit that 'Back Button', why not stay and have a read for a few minutes?
If you are after a website which gives advice on how to hack an iPhone X, download the latest Steven Seagal movie, or view nudy ladies, you've come to the wrong place and may now press 'Back'.
However, if you would like a lifestyle blog, written by a 30-something chap, living in Bath (England), feast your eyes on this.
You won't discover how to copy PlayStation 4 games. What you will find is a blog, covering life in the West Country, the highs and lows of supporting two unsuccessful football teams, while sharing a house with a wife and rabbit.
All written by a man, somewhere on the sanity-scale between normal and eccentric.
