I have been wearing an imaginary black armband for the past two days. I am mourning the death of a loved one.
No family member, friend or indeed any human has passed away. Neither has an animal. In fact, nothing living has died – that’s not to say that this death is not a tragedy.
It may surprise you, but this muscular bicep does not belong to me.
I said earlier that I was not mourning the death of a friend. That isn’t entirely true. A friend of mine has died, but this is of the pizza takeaway variety of pals.
I believe that I was first introduced to Pizzarella in 1993. We hadn’t been living in Bath long at that time, having moved from Bristol less than a year earlier.
As a family, we didn’t eat many takeaways, while my siblings and I were children. To be fair to my parents, they weren’t being tight with money, or forcing their kids to be health freaks.
Our childhood home was near to the infamous Gloucester Road. Even twenty five years ago, there were takeaway outlets up and down the road. I don’t know if hygiene ratings existed in the late 80’s, early 90’s; but I can only assume not, as I seem to remember every takeaway business looking disgusting.
I vividly remember Miss Millie’s fried chicken having a window smashed. A trail of blood ran from the broken glass to a house, a short walk away. It wouldn’t take Inspector Morse to work out who may have been involved in that break in!
Anyway, I think that I have established that I didn’t eat many takeaways in Bristol – and with good reason!
Therefore, when we moved to Bath and discovered Pizzarella, an amazing little Italian takeaway, we became hooked!
My loyalty to the takeaway continued throughout my teenage years and into adulthood. When I left home and was forced to fend for myself, my pizza addiction continued. An addiction rarely fixed by the likes of Dominos and Pizza Hut, I regularly called on Bath’s best Italian takeaway.
Pizzarella was owned and ran by a wonderful man. He was a stereotypical Italian. A fantastic cook, larger than life and always ready to explode at one of his helpers, should they make an error. Let’s just say that he was a perfectionist.
Not a Pizzarella pizza, but one from Naples, Italy. Hard to think that you could once buy pizza this good in Bath.
Sadly, this fantastic Italian hung up his apron, to start a much deserved retirement. I seem to recall this taking place shortly before I left Newbridge, to move in with Claire, a mile or so up the road in Weston.
Claire knew of Pizzarella’s famous reputation and despite not living around the corner anymore, I was more than happy to return to my old stomping ground, in order to pick up good quality pizza.
The legendary Italian owner had gone and so had much of the quality of pizza. Whoever had taken over the business certainly knew his onions – or pizzas, though. Maybe he had been well-trained by his retired predecessor, or perhaps the wonderful stone oven helped keep these pizzas the best in Bath.
In recent years, we haven’t frequented Pizzarella as much anymore. Looking at the menu, it appears that whoever runs the takeaway now has expanded the menu to include kebabs and the like. I have never eaten a kebab and never intend do, but I have heard bad things about these ones…
This Saturday, we ordered a pizza for the first time in about a year. Claire and I were both disappointed. My pizza was flavourless, what little cheese there was tasted cheap and the tomato sauce – one of the best parts of the traditional Pizzarella pizza – was awful by comparison.
Thousands mourn the loss.
It’s such a shame that what was once home to the best pizza I have eaten outside of Italy, has sold out to become a greasy kebab joint, with very average food.
Rest in peace, Pizzarella.
You will become the thing of myth and legend.
Fireworks. Pretty impressive. They could even be considered beautiful. They’re definitely fun!
Fun for some, maybe.
If you are a pet owner, it is terrible. If you are an animal, it must be absolutely terrifying.
Imagine living in a warzone, not knowing if a bomb is going to flatten your home, killing you and your family. I can only think that this is close to what our poor pets, as well as local wildlife, must be experiencing.
Even if our furry friends are not thinking about bombs and war, one thing is for certain – they are petrified!
I have always known that animals hate fireworks, but it is only since having a house rabbit that I have seen first hand just how scared they become.
Poor Roman required a lot of love, comfort and reassure to recover, following some nearby bangs this evening.
Please think of this before lighting that firework.
Personally, considering the so-called ‘Nanny State’ we live in, I am surprised that fireworks are still legal. The amount of people who must get injured as a result of the things…
I am not calling for a firework ban. Firstly, such a decision would never be agreed by the government.
I also don’t want to sound like one of those people, who takes to their blog or social media, to demand something be banned because they personally don’t like it.
Although I know the next part of this post will make me sound exactly that…
Instead of banning fireworks, I would call for a few changes in the law on how they can be used…
- Restrict the use of fireworks to public, licenced displays.
- Alternatively, make it illegal to light a firework outside of a certain window of dates. For example the weekend prior to and days running up to 5th November are OK, as is New Year’s Eve. Anything else is a ‘no no’.
Any chance of passing my law? Nope. Thought not.
Some local moron was setting off fireworks this evening! What’s so special about 27th October; besides the fact that the clocks have gone back, meaning mummy is allowing them to spend an extra hour out on Weston Rec (a local field) with their equally moronic friends; one of whom has stolen a firework from his daddy’s shed?
No doubt these idiotic thirty-somethings will be back later in the week, once they get some more money; which they can spend on fireworks, after paying mummy the £20 weekly rent, and of course stocking up on Frosty Jack Cider. 6 litres for £1.95. Cheaper than bleach.
Those responsible for Roman’s scare.
Seriously, if wish to see fireworks, go to an organised display. It’ll be cheaper than buying your own fireworks and you’ll see a far superior display.
If you must have a display at home, only buy fireworks suitable for the size of your garden, don’t let them off in a public place (this IS illegal) and wait until closer to Bonfire Night! Only chavs let them off in October.
The clocks have now gone back, I had a good night’s sleep and have now settled down to blog the second installment of my Friday Frights, while Claire watches Liverpool play Spurs.
Where did we finish off last night? Oh yes, I had cleaned Neil Warnock and nursed him back to full, loud health. No idea what I am on about? Read this.
Let’s forget about Neil Warnock for this post and move onto the second scare I had at work. A scare, which I like to call, a ‘Friday Fright’.
Unlike dropping an ear bud onto a dirty bathroom floor, this ‘FF’ really was a moment of terror!
There couldn’t have been more than fifteen minutes before the end of the day, and indeed the end of the week, when I saw it…
I had not seen it before. At first I thought it was a bit of string or a mark on the wall. It could have even been a bit of dirt – the IT Department isn’t the cleanest of locations.
I then realised, to my horror, what the mark on the wall really was, and the reason why I had not seen it before. The reason why I had not noticed the marking until Friday afternoon, was because it hadn’t been there before. Not there because the thing on the wall had legs – eight to be exact – and had previously not walked/crawled into my workspace territory.
There was no way I was going to deal with the eight-legged freak – anybody who knows me, or reads this blog will be fully aware of that! I purposely give spiders a wide berth. My two colleagues share my hate of the things, so there was no chance of me calling upon them for aid. Even if I was a spider lover, catching the thing would involve climbing up onto the table. Asking me to perform such a feat would be a wasted effort – you may as well suggest I conquer Everest, such is the impossible nature of the challenge.
A helpful colleague from another area of the office appeared. Clearly hearing my cowardly wimpers, they had made their way to my workspace, to see if they could help rescue me from the cause of my peril – I.e. catch the spider.
I was warned that it may not be possible to catch the spider, as it had positioned itself in the safety of a gap in the wall. What’s worse, is if the monster was disturbed and knocked from the wall, it could fall onto my desk or the floor! Horror of horrors!
Now thankfully BANNED by the British Board of Film Classification.
If the spider is hiding on the wall, I know where it is – despite hating the fucking thing. If it becomes lost under a pile of papers on my desk, or on the floor, I would forever be on edge, waiting to be attacked, as a spider runs up my arm or trouser leg.
It was decided that the safest thing for everyone involved, sadly including the spider, was to leave it well alone and hope it dies, or decides to go back to where it came from – how very Brexit!
Ever wondered why the European Union don’t seem bothered about the UK leaving?
I was happy with this. My positivity was certainly helped by the fact that I was going home for the weekend and I was able to forget about the scary creature for a couple of days.
Those couple of days are now over. I am due back at my desk in the morning. The spider will be waiting for me. Gulp…
I normally enjoy Fridays in the office. I feel that whatever happens across the eight or so hours that I spend at my desk, come 4.30pm, it is the weekend and I am out of there!
Each Friday, I wake up, telling myself that absolutely nothing can go wrong to ruin my day…
The computer system could allow a locum doctor to accidentally update every patient record, stating that they have myxomatosis. I’d fix the mistake, quickly and professionally *, with a friendly smile on my face.
* or ask somebody senior; ensuring that I take no offence when they reply “oh, for ***** sake!”
A secretary could accidentally and inadvertently expose a software security hole, unknown to everyone; before proceeding to unwittingly wipe the entire system and erase everything. I would just shrug and calmly accept that “these things happen”. Hakuna Matata *
* easy for me, really. I wouldn’t be the one expected to fix the mess.
The point of these examples is that whatever metaphorical excrement is thrown at me come the end of the week, I will be a lot less stressed by the situation, as the weekend is just around the corner.
However…
There was always going to be that word. Why else would I have taken the time to write this blog post?
The first of my two ordeals, or ‘Friday Frights’ (rather fitting with Halloween next week), involved an accident in the toilet – the location of most accidents! Thankfully, in my case, my “accident” was considerably less dirty than you are no doubt imagining.
A couple of months ago, one of my wireless earphones mysteriously vanished. The earphones are like Ant and Dec, in that one doesn’t work without the other. Seriously – it’s true. Due to keeping one ear free, in order to hear what’s going on in the office, I have only ever used one of the two ear buds (or whatever they’re called) at a time. Therefore, despite losing one of the buds (Ant), I was disappointed that the other bud (Dec) was useless and didn’t do a job alone.
Dec sans Ant
I therefore decided to invest in a new pair of earphones. They work better than the old set, have superior sound quality and come with a battery pack, so become recharged, without the need to be plugged into a power source. I still believe that one bud won’t run without the other, but cannot use the Ant and Dec analogy again, and am struggling to think of another. I’ll name them after former-Leeds United manager, Neil Warnock, and the goalkeeper, Paddy Kenny, who used to follow him to whatever club he would end up at. Neil can be the right ear Paddy the left.
Back to the toilet. I found myself in the work bathroom, answering a call of nature. While washing my hands, disaster struck! One of the buds fell out of my ear! It was Neil Warnock! My hand reached out in an attempt to try and catch the falling earphone, but only managed to help Warnock on his way towards the filthy floor – thankfully missing the toilet bowl!
Neil Warnock was on a floor of filth and dirt. I would normally find such a sentence hilarious; but as it does mly refer to the football manager, instead, a device that I place inside my ear, I was less than impressed with the mishap. To make things more annoying, Warnock shouldn’t have been in my ear anyway! I never wear earphones when going to the toilet, due to the risk of losing them, so I was understandably displeased.
I managed to rescue dirty Neil, using a handful of toilet paper, before returning to my desk, in order to get on with my work and have a think about how to sterilise Warnock of every disease and virus known to man, without infecting myself.
Bloody hell, Neil! You’re filthy.
I discovered to my relief, that the earphones I had purchased were waterproof. The product description boasts how you can wear them in the shower. Surely this means that I can give Warnock a much needed wash?
I placed Neil in a used water bottle, before adding soap and warm water. I then shook the bottle, before emptying its contents. I washed Warnock under a tap, before sticking him under a hand dryer.
It is probably fair to say that Neil Warnock is now cleaner than Paddy Kenny!
It was time to test my cleaning skills and to see if the product description on Amazon was lying. I started to listen to Warnock, by playing Spotify through my mobile. I could certainly hear the music, but Neil Warnock was really, really quiet – something which football fans will find very ironic, considering the ear bud’s namesake is anything but!
Back home, I undressed Neil Warnock, as I suspected that he, I mean “it”, was still wet from his (its) earlier wash. Stripping Warnock was easy. Putting the rubber covering back on was an almost impossible challenge – although I eventually achieved it.
The good news is that Neil Warnock is back to being as loud as ever. The ear bud is working again too!
Time has beaten me, and despite the clocks going back tonight, gifting us all an hour, I need to get to sleep asap.
Rest assured, I will return to write up the second Friday Fright – and this was a genuine scare!
What a wonderful sight – assuming that you don’t have to leave the house anytime soon…
Thankfully, it’s the weekend and I have no plans to do anything – apart from hearing the wind and rain outside, while I’m warm and dry indoors.
There’s not many better things in life, than falling asleep – me after I’ve published this post – while listening to water against windows…
Not exactly what I meant…
That’s better!
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.
