Manly Man-uel
I'm a firm believer in leaving things to the experts.
I'm a fan of tradesmen and the services they offer, I mean why DIY when you can get a man in?
If the sink is leaking, get a plumber in.
If the grass needs cut, call a gardener.
Need to be somewhere and are too fat/lazy to walk, get a taxi.
If the plug on the TV goes, get an electrician in.
(or just get a new TV)
Obvious really.
But...
I'm a manly Man-uel check out my 1 pack
....some things you just have to do yourself. Twice in the last few days I have had to be a man, a manly man. The sort of men you saw in the 70's all stubble and Ford Capri's.
In a fit of manliness I took down a set of shelving that was annoying me. And I did it properly. I normally just take a hammer to such issues and see what happens. But not this time. AND I painted the wall after. Check me out! To be honest the broadband was down, so what the hell else was I gonna do? I sat back and admired my handiwork, much like Da Vinci would have done. But he probably didn't have a fag and a cup of tea too. Returning a yellowy nicotine stained wall to it's former glory was very satisfying for me.
I had paint on my jeans and shirt. I had paint on my hands and bald head. This was brilliant! I headed straight to the shop. What is the point of painting something without sharing the fact with the general public? Eh? I may keep a little bit of paint on my head for work this evening......that'll set a few people straight.
Saturday was the Grand National so like "housewives" across the country I just had to have a flutter. I know nothing about horses save for the obvious, four legs, face like Celine Dion, and they come with a little fella dressed in their pj's on top. But I wasn't going to let this lack of knowledge put me off.
I studied the "form" as I believe it's called. I checked out who the trainers and jockeys were. I listened to the chefs as they discussed which nag they would be putting their drinking money on. But it was like quantum physics, who the fuck knows what it is or what it means. I went down the route of pretty names. But that's the road to nowhere, I knew that much. So I phoned my chum, Mr D. He knows about things, he's a bus driver so obviously he knows things. Being a grumpy sod being one of them. He gave me the names of three horses. Result.
I had the names of three good bets, but now what? The fuck I know how to put a bet on. I knew how to dress for the bookies. I'd seen the scary little men wandering back and forward to the bookies when I lived near one years ago. I planned my bookies outfit, dirty jeans, crappy blazer, dirty shirt, fag with 2 inches of ash, and a Daily Mirror in back pocket. Sorted. Off to the bookies for me. This was dear diary stuff!
The bookies was dark and the smell of sweat and testosterone was over powering. Armed with the scant information Mr D gave me regarding how to put a bet on I searched for the little pens. Without sounding like Jerry Seinfeld, what's with the small pens? Big men need big pens, not little titchy pens. Titchy pen secured I needed a betting slip. This was much fun! I looked like a pro!
LMM wanted me to put five pounds "on the nose" on Comply or Die. On the nose? Crikey, I had googled it before I went. Five pounds to win it seemed. I filled her slip in, then mine, the whole time checking how the chap beside me, who was clearly drunk, was completing his slip. I seemed to have cracked it. Then a woman sidled up beside me and asked me how to put a bet on. Get the fuck! I was bluffing, blufus maximus, and I wasn't going to be responsible for other peoples losses. But I did point out to her that she was using a football slip and not a horsie slip. I made for the counter before she followed up with any more questions. As I made my way to the gnarly man behind the protective glass I could hear some charmer behind me offering to help her out, "Gimme that here love...."
I must have done it right because the man gave me back my pink slips and took my money. I'm sure he would have pointed out any mistakes. And off I went. LMM was very proud! I said I might take up farting in public and wolf whistling. She said I wouldn't. Normal order resumed.
But I had done it, I had gone to the bookies, put on a bet and survived to tell the tale. And the best bit? Between LMM and I we nailed the bookies for a fortune!
If anyone needs me I'll be moisturising my man hands.
In a fit of manliness I took down a set of shelving that was annoying me. And I did it properly. I normally just take a hammer to such issues and see what happens. But not this time. AND I painted the wall after. Check me out! To be honest the broadband was down, so what the hell else was I gonna do? I sat back and admired my handiwork, much like Da Vinci would have done. But he probably didn't have a fag and a cup of tea too. Returning a yellowy nicotine stained wall to it's former glory was very satisfying for me.
I had paint on my jeans and shirt. I had paint on my hands and bald head. This was brilliant! I headed straight to the shop. What is the point of painting something without sharing the fact with the general public? Eh? I may keep a little bit of paint on my head for work this evening......that'll set a few people straight.
Saturday was the Grand National so like "housewives" across the country I just had to have a flutter. I know nothing about horses save for the obvious, four legs, face like Celine Dion, and they come with a little fella dressed in their pj's on top. But I wasn't going to let this lack of knowledge put me off.
I studied the "form" as I believe it's called. I checked out who the trainers and jockeys were. I listened to the chefs as they discussed which nag they would be putting their drinking money on. But it was like quantum physics, who the fuck knows what it is or what it means. I went down the route of pretty names. But that's the road to nowhere, I knew that much. So I phoned my chum, Mr D. He knows about things, he's a bus driver so obviously he knows things. Being a grumpy sod being one of them. He gave me the names of three horses. Result.
I had the names of three good bets, but now what? The fuck I know how to put a bet on. I knew how to dress for the bookies. I'd seen the scary little men wandering back and forward to the bookies when I lived near one years ago. I planned my bookies outfit, dirty jeans, crappy blazer, dirty shirt, fag with 2 inches of ash, and a Daily Mirror in back pocket. Sorted. Off to the bookies for me. This was dear diary stuff!
The bookies was dark and the smell of sweat and testosterone was over powering. Armed with the scant information Mr D gave me regarding how to put a bet on I searched for the little pens. Without sounding like Jerry Seinfeld, what's with the small pens? Big men need big pens, not little titchy pens. Titchy pen secured I needed a betting slip. This was much fun! I looked like a pro!
LMM wanted me to put five pounds "on the nose" on Comply or Die. On the nose? Crikey, I had googled it before I went. Five pounds to win it seemed. I filled her slip in, then mine, the whole time checking how the chap beside me, who was clearly drunk, was completing his slip. I seemed to have cracked it. Then a woman sidled up beside me and asked me how to put a bet on. Get the fuck! I was bluffing, blufus maximus, and I wasn't going to be responsible for other peoples losses. But I did point out to her that she was using a football slip and not a horsie slip. I made for the counter before she followed up with any more questions. As I made my way to the gnarly man behind the protective glass I could hear some charmer behind me offering to help her out, "Gimme that here love...."
I must have done it right because the man gave me back my pink slips and took my money. I'm sure he would have pointed out any mistakes. And off I went. LMM was very proud! I said I might take up farting in public and wolf whistling. She said I wouldn't. Normal order resumed.
But I had done it, I had gone to the bookies, put on a bet and survived to tell the tale. And the best bit? Between LMM and I we nailed the bookies for a fortune!
If anyone needs me I'll be moisturising my man hands.
