Tuesday, 12 May 2009

The legend of Bob, boys and their pies, how I bathe in a shower of spit, and other extraordinary tales.

It came to me the other day, after years of allowing it to gently pass over my none-too-bothered brain. Suddenly, I was bothered. Or, should I say, 'bobered'. *Insert appropriate wooping/jeering at my excellent pun* And this is what got to me: why do people, especially Americans (apparently), feel the need to insert a 'Bob' at the end of a perfectly reasonable, if slightly boring, name? At what point did Mr. and Mrs. Walton decide that Jim's name just wasn't good enough? Was it that Mr. W, stressed with the troubles of naming his son, was sat on the verandah with his non-alchoholic beverage when a lightbulb appeared above his head: "I know what his name needs! It needs a Bob! Olivia, Bob is what we were looking for! Praise the Lord!" (They need to make that episode, I want to see it.) Is it that two yawn-some names can produce one, fantasmagorical name? So many questions, so little of my time I want to put into finding the answers!

But lets forget, for a moment, that the Bob 'suffix' sounds plain silly. Le
t's put aside and accept the idea that mummy wanted to give little Jimmy two first names. After all, it's not really a rarity; that Sarah-Jane Twat off Corrie has a similar double-barreled first name. No, let's place those thought's firmly in our past and, instead, consider the cruelty exercised by those parents who call their son Tracy.

Talking of sons, I went to the football on Saturday - West Brom v Wigan. Now is the time to express your surprise that I am indeed a footie fan (WBA). Yes, I have a season ticket. Yes, I know the offside rule. Yes, I am a girl. At least that's what mummy's always told me. But it's not all bad, being amongst probably 80% of a stadium's worth of smelly, foul-mouthed men, with steak and kidney pie spewing down their football t-shirts. Talking of which, one of my fellow fans asked me whether I'd been corrupted by all the swearing. In my head I replied with "I don't
know what you mean...I taught you all!" What I actually said was more like "Bla bla, ya de ya, stammer stammer stammer, cough cough." Ah my excellent brain to mouth connection, working so well yet again.

Anyway, it was an unusual day, not least because we were apparently playing a group of
Greek ladies exhibiting their plummage *see picture*, or that we won. I had my hair up in a ponytail, and the man who stands behind me, screaming into my ear hole (one day I shall demand to see CCTV footage to prove that this is the case), and who likes to shower me with a fortnightly floury of his spit (if you could swallow the excess once in a while mate, you'd be doing a great public service) decided it would be OK to flick my hair! Is this acceptable behaviour? Is it perfectly fine that a man who I don't really know, but have plenty of his DNA on my person at least twice a month, should feel the need to mess with my hair? What, if anything, is seen as socially acceptable groping? I must admit, dear friends, I had a very 'Carrie Bradshaw off SATC' moment of ponder. The 'this made me wonder' one. (Unfortunately, my daily thought doesn't come with an NYC apartment and all the Christian Louboutin's a girl could bathe in.) I decided that, quite frankly, it was bloody annoying. But then we scored soon after and the World was put to rights once more. Bastard.

I've just found out that the Walton's named one of their sons 'Zebulon'. I now have a new found respect for Mr. Walton and his lightbulb.



West Brom playing a team of Greek girls, fluorescents on show.

1 comment:

  1. Now I love Glass Onion the blog, as well as the song. :)

    ReplyDelete