Four pints, two gays and a celebrity

An interesting experience in the Waggon & Horses with Goaty Steve on Friday evening. We both were accused of being gay, and Neve Campbell stepped on my foot. Ok, it wasn't the Neve Campbell. This one was younger and, if it is possible, more attractive. And let's face it, the only way I was going to get any attention from her was to have a stiletto pushed into my toe. Which some would pay good money to have happen.

We also encountered the town drunk.

"Are you two gay?"

I don't know what why he thought this. Obviously, I immediately accused Goaty of being the reason for his enquiry. Who denied all responsibility, of course.

"I shaw thish guy doing this..." followed by much waving of arms before I finally twigged the drunk had been watching someone mime "gay".

"Show, 'ow would you, er..."

"Mime?"

"Yesh, thash it, mime gay?"

A blank look from Goaty Steve.

"Er, John Inman?" I hazarded.

Another change of tack. "I'm alwaysh gettin' the sh*t kicked out of me."

"Why does that not surprise me?" mumbled Goaty Steve.

Not a goatee

I thought I would toy with growing a goatee. Not because I have any real urge for facial hair but as I hadn't shaved the day before (I know, declining standards, we'll not be dressing for dinner next), and wanting to see the disapproval on Mrs Alf's face I decided to give it a try.

Well, let's just say it took Mrs Alf a couple of hours before she even noticed. Remarkably, she would tolerate a full beard but not the goatee. Deep down, I know I'm not going to compete with Goaty Steve; I neither look like David Baddiel nor play the guitar. It was never going to look cool.

Whilst I was goatee-enabled I ensured that the kitchen/bathroom/utility waste water drain, which was showing signs of blockage, was now fully inoperative. It's an open drain being an older property and must have some sort of bizarre U-bend where all the gunk has lodged. After an increasingly smelly and futile hour of probing and rodding (please, no puns) I had to admit defeat. So the washing machine, dishwasher and bath are all on hold until a Polish plumber arrives later this afternoon.

Korfballman managed to cheer me up. It seems like his weekends are a lot more wild than mine. Which I know isn't difficult:

"I got completely rat-@rsed on Saturday night, at a home-brew fest for our korfball club. On my way home, during my usual kebab run (which was taking a bit longer than usual due to me being physically unable to ride my bike), I decided, quite understandably, to sleep a bit of it off under a tree at the side of the road.

At 2am I was woken by a paramedic. He asked me if I was ok, etc., and after a short conversation offered me a lift home. He stuck my bike in the back of the ambulance, and drove me back! Result! No kebab, though. I asked if they'd stop, but apparently it was too late for any of the vans to be open."

The Chop

Well, TFD won't be the dog he used to be after tomorrow. Mrs Alf is taking him to the vet's to have his bollox chopped off. I can't help feeling queasy and a little sorry for the parasitic little shi...poor thing. It might well help calm him down around the house, but just the thought of it makes me want to cross my legs in sympathy. I'm more worried about the looks Mrs Alf will start giving me when I misbehave around the house. She might think it will make her life easier if she gets us both done at the same time.