Saturday was Will J's wedding day, so Simon S, Michelle C and I ventured off to the never previously visited area of Northampton for the wedding of two people I had never met face-to-face.
We had booked rooms at the hotel and arrived in fairly good time. 'A WARM WELCOME' the moldy green sign boasted as we dragged our bags through the rotting doors, only to be greeting by a ghostly corridor and a reception area with nothing but a solid steel grill over the desk. Thinking we had wandered into a prison, I searched for a telephone to pick up so I could speak to somebody on the other side, but there was no phone, no 'press for attention' button, and no prison guard. Whilst Simon searched for other inmates and Michelle gazed bewildered at the greeny brown stains on the walls, I called the mobile number on the wall.
Nobody could be with us for half an hour, so we hung around, checked in, handed over all our personal possessions, belts and shoe laces, and were shown to our cells. After a world record change of clothes, we were let out and sped down the road in search of the church.
We were late, through no fault of our own, and the ceremony had started by the time we arrived. We had missed the first key wedding event. Good start. We made up for it though, by smiling sweetly at the entire congregation as they turned to see who was late, and bellowing out the hymns in our poshest, deepest voices. There was also a comedy moment during the first hymn where we gave it the big finish, put the words down, only to discover the final verse on the other side.
After the ceremony, Simon and I dashed off to change before the speeches. Despite a rapid turn-around, we missed them. We had missed the second key wedding event. We even missed Will's personal reference to us, in which we were supposed to stand up, courtsey, and take credit for getting the two of them together.
Food, pints of lager and three bottles of pink champagne came and went and soon we were merrily under the control of Lord Alcohol. This might somehow explain how we missed the cutting of the cake. Key wedding event three missed. How we managed it, though, is bizarre, as the cake was on a table right in front of us and we barely moved all evening.
With a large proportion of the guests being Welsh, I was in my element. Speaking in my well-practised Welsh accent I attempted to mimic and learn more Welsh phrases. The best I could muster, though, was 'Croeso y Cymru, dim ysmrygu' - Welcome to Wales, no smoking.
Still, we piled into a taxi at the end of the night and headed back to prison where we locked ourselves up (the prison guard was again off duty), and Simon and Michelle chained themselves to the gallows for it was their second anniversary and they felt they deserved to celebrate with some naughty fun.
So, night over, Will married, and enormous quantities of alcohol pumping round our bodies.
The morning arrived and we whiled away the minutes by lobbing up jelly beans for me to catch in my mouth. We were eventually let out for good behaviour and made our merry way back home, despite a brief stop for Simon to catch his breath and fight off the waves of alcohol-induced nausea sweeping over his suffering body.
Northampton is a far slower area of the world, they drive, talk and think slower than anywhere else I have ever been, with the exception of Chester, and customer service simply does not exist.
So, all in all, a splendid weekend and congratulations to Will and Erika Jenkins.
When Beccy H went to Italy in mid-April, she threatened to send me a postcard. Since then, every time I have spoken to her, she has asked me if it has arrived.
Well this morning it arrived, and here is an extract:
"Having a good time in Italy looking for my rich Italian footballer husband, but so far I am only a novelty with greasy waiters". Now, whoever said that the Post Office don't have time to read postcards was obviously a lying cad, for a thick arrow pointing to the aforementioned phrase, with 'NOT VERY NICE IS IT, BITCH' scrawled next to it in blue rollerball proves that you just can't get privacy with postcards these days.
Marvellous.
As I stood in the kitchen drying the dishes from the massive Easter roast lunch, I saw mother fiddling with the cd player.
"Why won't it work, Jonathan?" she asked, pressing all the buttons she could see. "Is the cd player turned on?" I enquired, as I grabbed another saucepan from the draining board. "Yes, I'm not stupid thank you" she retorted, disgusted that I should think so little of her. "Is the cd the right way round?" I replied. "Oh".
It's that time of year once again - the annual Cook family Easter Egg Hunt is scheduled for tomorrow afternoon.
My family isn't normal, everyone knows that, and every year my brother, two sisters and I compete for the Easter Egg Trophy (yes we have a specially designed trophy, engraved and everything). Father goes out in the morning and hides Easter Eggs around the garden (sizeable), we then congregate, father records the race on his camcorder and the winner gets to gloat for months on end.
However, blatant cheating (rehiding opponent's eggs in more tricky locations), tomfoolery (acting stupid in front of the camera) and bullying Sophie (binding her to a tree with rope, locking her in the back of a van, throwing her in a sandpit) occur every single year and each time we swear we can never better it, but we do.
I am the current champion, of course, and I intend to retain my title whatever it takes. Look out Sophie, I have plans.....
I started taking my Chinese medicine this week, in the hope that I might finally rid myself of this turbulent cough and cold.
I have three sets of pills and potions. The first one is a box of small bottles, one to be taken three times a day. I have to pierce the lid with the tiny little plastic straw before taking in a deep breath, motivating myself and finally closing my eyes and sucking down the evil mixture. My taste buds protest, my stomach grumbles with disagreement and I have to fight off the urge to throw it all up again, choosing instead to shiver uncontrollably and down as many glasses of water as possible to take the taste away.
Then come the pills. Eight, yes EIGHT pills to be taken three times a day. Except that these pills don't look like pills, more like pellets from a BB gun, and they rattle in the bottle like you would not believe. Fortunately they don't taste as bad as the evil mixture, but they give me indigestion. I'm thankful they don't give me diarrhoea, though, as those BB pellets could very well be likened to machine gun fire.
The third and final ingredient is the tar-like potion that I haven't dared open yet, I'm just too scared. I turn the bottle upside down and the contents take forever to slide inside the bottle, putting the fear of God into me as I imagine what it could do to my already suffering intestines.
Medicine? Not bloody likely. More like a course of massachistic witch potions designed to put my body through hell and relegate my cough and cold to the back of my thoughts.
When my computer threw up an error message, stating that Windows could not detect a mouse, I assumed it to be a slight glitch and restarted straight away. Well, I TRIED to restart it, but the computer just made a horrific groaning whining sound and didn't engage Windows.
I went off to PC World, tower unit under one arm, and asked the guy to run a diagnostic check. "Where did you buy it from?" he enquired, "well, a Tiny retail outlet in Guildford". "I'm sorry, we don't do diagnostic checks for third party computers, you'll have to take it back to Tiny". I was shocked, "they've gone bust" I stated, annoyed at their poor customer service. "I'm sorry, sir, there's nothing we can do for you." "So basically I'm f*cked then" I spitefully added, snatched the unit from the counter and headed for the door. "I'm sorry sir, you can't go out that way, that's the entrance" he offered, as a parting shot.
SO, blood boiling at PC World's pathetic attempt at service (why the hell can't they run a fiagnostic check for goodness sake, they'd get income from it and probably the repair job too?) and with the wisdom, generosity and guidance of Simon S, I have a replacement lined up at a cost of £800. Brilliant.
At the petrol station this morning, Mark R stood happily filling up his car.
As if by magic, a petrol station man appeared. "The hose leaks" he
said, as he pointed at Mark's increasingly diesel-soaked shoes and trousers.
"Thank you for telling me before I attempted to use it, and thank you for not
putting a notice up" Mark muttered.
Mark then went to pay for the fuel on the forecourt floor and on his trousers, but soon realised that due to wearing a different suit to the previous day, he didn't have his wallet.
Having all placed bets on the Grand National, Simon H, Shaun H, Mark R and I all journeyed off to White Hart Lane to watch the Spurs v Birmingham Premiership match yesterday afternoon, and what an afternoon it turned out to be.
Despite being a very passionate Spurs fan, I hadn't been to the Lane for two and a half years but you can imagine my glee when the god-like Robbie Keane cheekily stole the ball from under their keeper's nose and rolled it in the empty net after only five minutes. Everybody went mad and I shouted until I went hoarse.
When the half-time whistle went, the stadium's big screen showed the Grand National. The horsey man sporting a tweed jacket, corduroy trousers and flat-cap in true horsey stereotype, lowered the flag and they were off, galloping away for no other purpose than to win a few punters some cash. Horses fell at jumps, others unseated their riders and a few refused to carry on.
As the race entered the final stages, it began to get exciting. Mark R's horse had been leading most of the way, mine wasn't far behind, Shaun's had pulled up and Simon couldn't remember which one he'd bet on. "GO MONTY GO!" I yelled in my very best posh horsey voice, as I took out my betting slip from my pocket and shook it vigourously in front of me. "GO MONTY GO!". People stared and laughed, it was the final few jumps and Mark R's horse and mine were neck and neck. "RUUUUUUUN!" I yelled, jumping up and down, still flapping the betting slip in front of me, "RUUUUUUUN!". Gradually, my horse edged out in front, "GO MONTY GO!" I encouraged "GOOOOOOOO!" and finally Monty crossed the finish line in first place, wrecking Mark R's £75 potential win and providing me with a £30 profit. "YEEEEEEEESS!" I shouted, gleefully adding a few 'WOO HOO's for effect and I eventually sat down, utterly exhausted.
During the second half of the football, Birmingham equalized and the match looked like it was heading for a draw until Gus Poyet popped up with a dramatic volley with only three minutes left. The whole stadium erupted and you could sense the hysteria all around. Marvellous.
Some of you know that I am fairly superstitious about the number 14. WELL, Monty's Pass was 14/1 to win the Grand National - it won the race and made me a tidy £30, and Gus Poyet scored the winning goal for Spurs in a much-needed win in my first match for nearly three years - he wears number 14. Coincidence? Surely not?
For the past few days I have been feeling particularly unhealthy and was banished from work.
Having almost choked on my own greeny brown phlegm last night, I was rather looking forward to seeing the doctor in the morning. Despite a day and a half's rest, things had not improved and I was still coughing and spluttering as badly as an elderly Renault 5.
SO, upon arrival at the quack's, I explained that I had had a cough/cold in early February and that it had almost completely gone away, but that now it was back with a serious vengeance and hence the visit to see her.
It turns out that I have been "most unfortunate" to contract a "virus on top of another virus".
Now, you would have thought that being double-virused, I would need some sort of strong medication or antibiotic. Oh no, I came away from the surgery with a small scrap of paper with the words 'Codeine Linctus' scrawled across it, with the intention that I go out and buy some. Despite my protests and obvious disbelief, I left disheartened.
And so started the quest for 'Codeine Linctus'.
After an unsuccessful search for the stuff in Watford town centre, I remembered a conversation with a work colleague about Chinese Medicine and managed to locate such an establishment. When I walked in, the doctor began wittering on at me in Chinese (you would have thought that a young Caucasian man wearing an England rugby shirt in the middle of Watford would have been enough to indicate that I wasn't actually Chinese) and I was eventually told that I needed x, y and z medication to get rid of the cough. I was astonished to be presented with a £40 bill, but walked out with a bottle of pills, two packs of bottles of liquid and another jar of different liquid - this one is brown - but no Codeine Linctus. Later analysis concluded that they saw me coming, so to speak.
I eventually found a pharmacy that sold me Codeine Linctus and the stuff is
utterly vile but hopefully it will do the trick. I shall save the Chinese
concoctions until after the Codeine Linctus is finished as combining them
would probably cause some sort of internal implosion.
I am not allowed at work until Monday, as was decided by unanimous vote.
They do like me, really.
As I rounded the corner and sat down at my desk this morning, I was greeted with "oh GO HOME Jon" by a colleague who had noted my poor state of health the previous day. Thanking her for such a warm welcome, I sniffled, sneezed, coughed and spluttered my way through the morning before being told to "piss off home" by another co-worker (meant in the nicest possible way, of course). So, come midday, they all took a vote and despite my protests, I was told to go home to rest and recover or I would be "forcibly ejected from the building".