Well, I was going to post up an appeal for a knight in shining armour to come and weep the poor lonely and beloved Spinster off her feet today, but that will have to wait now this has come up. (Sorry Spin - I figured *one* more day wouldn't make *that* much difference...)
Anyroad, the deal is that this lot called History Matters are inviting all of us to record our activities this very day (Tuesday 17th October, 2006) and eventually upload our diary entries to their site, thus helping create a social history of life as 'twas lived today and (hopefully) the world's biggest blog. Much as I'd hate to see my 500th post eclipsed as the most monster post-up of all time, I guess I can only bow to the inevitable. So here goes - there'll be regular updates throughout the day (assuming anything worth recording occurs....), so keep tuning in. I'm sure it will be riveting.
6.10 a.m. Alarm goes off. Stumble downstairs. Have a dump - reasonably smooth delivery - middling clean up operation: 6.5 on the Red Adair scale.
6.15 a.m. Shower.
6.25 a.m. Empty bin, make tea, two slices of toast (Hovis organic wholemeal) make cheese and cucumber sandwich for work.
6.35 a.m. Read last chapter of The Polysyllabic Spree, occasional glances at BBC Breakfast in the hope of catching a glimpse of Kate Silverton/Jules Wilson thigh/ankle/cleavage etc. Unsuccessful. It's that bloody desk.
6.45 a.m. Rouse S. from deep slumber. Hide in wardrobe until her rage passes. Dress. Take off dress and put on trousers and t-shirt.
7.00 a.m. Brush teeth.
7.10 a.m. Leave house. Walk to St. Margarets Station. I-pod highlight - 'England's Glory' by Ian Dury ("Peculiar Clark").
7.35 a.m. Arrive St. Margarets Station. Board minibus. Start reading A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius by Dave Eggers. Magnanimous of me, I'm sure you'll agree.*
9.00 a.m. Arrive at work. Brief chat with Cheryl from O.T., whom I've not seen in ages. She has to drop her nipper off at toddlers' school and so can't get to the minibus pickup in time. Consequently, she has to endre the 2-hour bus trip surrounded by effing and c-ing schooolkids. Not nice.
9.05 a.m. Sign in at work (as having arrived at 9.00 a.m.. Endure hostile comments regarding personal appearance from work colleagues. Pay £2.00 into "Corporate" Tea/Lunch Fund (current balance £164.87)
9.35 a.m. post this.
*The bastard rejected one of my stories.
10.30 a.m. Coffee at Rococo's (why oh why oh why is it not Rococoa's??)
11.00 a.m. Had another dump. Clean up operation 8.8 on the Red Adair scale. Where does it all come from??
11.26 a.m. finished writing this:
Sgt Bobster's Lonely Hearts Club Band...
Well, if you'd told me all those many months ago when I first posted up some inconsequential ramblings concerning Patrick Vieira's putative move to Real Madrid** that I would one day be reduced to this - to soliciting in these very pages for a good man, true of heart, stout of liver and supple of limb to soothe the tumultuous, heaving breast [steady! Overwrought Pre-Raphealite prose Ed.] of our beloved goddess of blog, The Divine Spinster....well, frankly, I'd never have believed you.
Sadly, things have, it seems, come to precisely that pass and there seems little option after reading this enormously candid and moving recent entry from the Spinster.
I know the more salacious among you have for some time now harboured fantasies that The Spinster and your humble servant might one day forge a union and unite our two formidable blog houses to form a nuptial alliance that would surely strike terror into the heart of the mainstream media (and Hello! magazine). Sadly, this can never be. Firstly, The Spinster, with a discernment rarely to be found in this era of dumbing down and instant gratification, has outlined a number of criteria - age, looks, lack of physical impairment etc. - many of which, unfortunately preclude me, a 58 year old calliper-bound Nikki Lauda lookalikey, from plighting my troth to Ulster's foremost singleton. As if these deficiencies were not enough, we also live in the shadow of heartless sectarianism - even if we wished to, we could never surmount the wall of bigotry and intolerance that separates me, a genocidal orange bastard killjoy proddy from the feckless spud-munching bead juggler of my dreams. And then there's the cockrot.
But fear not, this story will, I'm sure, end happily. If you happen to be (in no particular order of importance) male, aged between 25 and 40, not hairy, sentient, single, not too tall, not too short, handsome, into "indie-type rock music" (whatever that is), Catholic, literate, alcoholic, "liberal with a small l", a sexual gymnast of earth-shudderingly wonderful proportions, living within easy access of Bristol, please contact me here at:
Bob's Lonely Hearts
Please enclose a cheque/postal order for £15.00 and a passport sized photo. (And make sure it's of someone reasonably fit or you'll have no chance...picky? You don't know the meaning of the word, mate!)
** he didn't leave Arsenal that summer, as it goes.
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