Nice one, me.
The Awd Feller made it a top event, with a nice meal and wine (obviously) and some of my mates came up trumps too.
Note I say some. SOME.
A small number of my mates are crap.
The two crap ones really out-crapped themselves this year. They forgot about The Big Day until the weekend before, so sorted a mid week meal out. (I say meal - to me, fish pie in a gastro pub isn't a birthday meal exactly, but I'll let that pass.)
The presents were ok, one mate put more effort in than the other but that's by the by.
What really pissed me off was:
I was home by 8pm. 'Didn't expect you home this early', The Awd Feller says, annoyed he has to turn Sons of Anarchy off mid-episode (I can't stand that show).
'You and me both, lover,' I reply, with one poxy glass of wine in my belly.
(An example of cat pee. On my mate's rug. Which she told me all about. On my birthday)
One mate told me all about her problems, exactly the same way she does every time I see her. They are:
I hate my job.
I hate my brother.
My car's costing me a bomb.
God I'm old.
I can't wait to retire.
I'm tired.
I'm skint.
I have to be in work at 7.30 tomorrow morning.
My cat pissed on the rug.
My diabetes is giving me gyp.
The doctor's given me sleeping pills.
I hate Christmas.
My legs hurt.
It's cold.
The other crap mate was late, stuck to Diet Coke, and had her eye on the clock because she'd only put enough in the parking meter until 7.30pm. Yeah, she was bloody driving.
Actually, now I come to think I'm made up I was home by 8pm, at least I didn't have to put up with their shite for that bloody long.
No comments:
Post a Comment