Before I blog, I would like to make something perfectly clear. Ireland is a beautiful country. It saddens me that I have never been and would one day like to holiday there. The people are nice and come across as warm and welcoming. Basically, I like the Irish. What I don’t like is the English who, for one day of the year, have a desire to be Irish.
It’s like the races at Cheltenham last week. Millions of people going mad for the sport, dressing up like John McCririck and throwing millions of pounds into Ray Winstone and Bet 365’s bank account. Yes, horse racing is a popular event in this country, but most of the people at Cheltenham Races don’t normally bother about it the other 51 weeks of the year. Oh, and don’t get me started on idiots who jump on the rugby bandwagon every February for the 6 Nations.
I digress terribly. Today’s blog is, of course, talking about St Patrick’s Day – a day which should be respected and celebrated by Irish. Not the English, who have no idea of the day’s significance to Ireland, and just see it as an excuse to wear daft Guinness-branded hats and drink to excess, while acting like a twat.
Many will argue that England should put more of an effort into celebrating St George’s Day. What a great idea. Yes, all pubs should lay on an English theme, put cricket on the telly, serve tea on tap and rejoice about being shit at football. In case you couldn’t tell, I was being sarcastic – although we are shit at football. Very shit.
I’ll admit, I am shamefully ignorant and know little about both St Patrick and St George. After doing intensive research (spending a minute on Wikipedia), I have learnt the following… St Patrick is famous for chasing some snakes into the sea, whereas St George defeated a dragon. What’s more dangerous? A few snakes or a massive, fire-breathing dragon? I’ll leave that with you, although I don’t think I fully believe the dragon story. Whoever made it up was probably pissed on England’s choice of beverage – Carling Extra Cold.
Last night, I went with Claire and her parents to a pub in Keynsham for a meal. This was to celebrate both my birthday (belatedly) and her mum’s (ahead of next week). For those of you who don’t know the place, Keynsham is situated halfway between Bath and Bristol. It is not as classy as Bath and not as rough as Bristol. The posh Keynsham residents will boast to be closer to Bath, while the riff-raff will no doubt claim to be Bristolian. As somebody who lives in Bath, I can say, one hundred percent, that Keynsham as not linked to our city in anyway, and is a place in its own right. However, we do share the same useless council – Bath and North East Somerset.
The meal was nice. After eating a pie and drinking a pint of Thatchers AND white wine (that’s not a Bristolian cocktail, it was a pint of cider and a small glass of wine, which was free), I needed a piss. I made my way to the toilets. They were surprisingly clean. I was all ready to commend the cleaner on an excellent piece of urinal scrubbing, when I noticed something horrific in the cubical. A turd. Not just a turn in the toilet bowl which had not flushed properly, a turd on the floor! Disgusting. To make matters worse, it’s creator had not shat it onto the floor. To make things EVEN worse, he (or possibly she) had crapped it into toilet paper, wrapped it up like a burrito (which, ironically is what Claire had for her meal) and carefully placed it onto the tiled ground. Nice.
No, I’m not blogging like a gangster rapper. ‘Rat-Tat-Tat-Tat’ refers to the sound my front door has been making a lot recently.
Firstly, Tuesday. Not once, not twice, but thrice did charity workers call round begging. Their first visit was during the afternoon when Claire, sleeping after a night shift, was awoken by their banging on the door. I think she told them to fuck off, before going back upstairs to sleep. They later returned when we were having our tea. We ignored it, only for them to return an hour later. This time I answered it. Like Claire, I too told was more then welcoming, telling them to “get to feck”. In the politest possible way, of course. It’s bad enough you have these people on the streets of Bath (many of whom, by the way, are on commission themselves) trying to get your bank account details. You don’t want it in your own home. Claire and I both donate to charity, but not when we’re forced to by some ‘C U Next Tuesday’ carrying a pen and clipboard on your doorstep.
The next day, my birthday and day off work, I was happily sat downstairs, watching Keeping Up Appearances on DVD (yup, I know how to live), while Claire slept off another night shift; when I heard BANG BANG BANG. No word of a lie, it sounded as if somebody was kicking the front door in. I made my way to the door as fast as I could, and tried to unlock it. I had not been out the house all morning and naturally assumed it was still locked from the night before. We have a bit of a dodgy lock on the front door and it sticks from time to time. The key wouldn’t work.by this point. Whoever was outside was getting inpatient and started ringing the doorbell. I started to swear. I then heard a voice from upstairs. It was Claire. “The door’s unlocked! I got back this morning!” What a stupid twat I am. I opened the door, without the need for a key. Surprisingly it wasn’t hanging off its hinges, despite it nearly being kicked in. Had the person at the front door been a charity worker, by this point, I think I would have thrust the clipboard down their throat and the pen into another orifice of theirs. Luckily no blood was spilt, nor clipboards damaged, as the person at the front door was the postman. Postman Pat, Postman Pat, Postman Pat and his gurt big bat, used for bashing my door in! He had my train models and magazines I ordered last month. They were late. Quite fitting, considering they were trains. One of the trains was also broken, so that was another email to send. A replacement is being sent out, so the postman will no doubt be kicking the door in again in a couple of weeks to deliver that!
It’s official – Bath City Football Club are better than the Champions League holders, Bayern Munich. Mad am I? Maybe. I am I wrong? Absolutely not. Here’s why..
Bath City beat Havant and Waterlooville in the Conference South. Havant and Waterlooville in turn beat Aldershot Town in the FA Trophy. Therefore, Bath City are better than both Havant and Aldershot.
Aldershot Town beat Welling United in the Conference Premier. Welling went on to beat Luton Town who themselves knocked Kidderminster Harriers out of the FA Cup. This also makes Bath City better than Welling, Luton and Kidderminster. Still with me?
Kidderminster beat Peterborough in the FA Cup, who thrashed Reading 6-0 in the League Cup. Reading beat Derby in the Championship but Derby beat Wigan. So Bath City are better than Peterborough, Reading, Derby AND the FA Cup holders, Wigan Athletic.
Wigan pulled off a shock last weekend, and won 2-1 at Manchester City in the FA Cup and Manchester City beat Bayern Munich in The Champions League earlier this season
That makes Bath City better than Bayern Munich. I expect the Champions League trophy (and the FA Cup) to be delivered to the boardroom at Twerton Park by tomorrow morning.
Today I learnt that I share my birthday with the internet. Happy birthday to us both.
I’m never one to ask for a present, but… hint hint.
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.
