Football and trannies ruined a perfectly lovely date for me and my husband, Johnny, on Saturday in Manchester. There we were being regular, middle-aged men, buying comics and cybermen dollies and minding our own business when The Others decided to try to spoil our blissful time.
Johnny and I were walking down Canal Street discussing what was better, Firefox or Women, when we chanced upon a bar patronised by men who look like men in dresses. That's all perfectly fine, of course, but we both felt uncomfortable about it. There were two transvestites sitting outside the bar. They were being loud and shouting things at passers-by. They weren't quietly dignified transvestites, they were the over-the-top, screaming, absolutely fabulous types. You know. Wankers. Passing them was going to be awkward for Johnny and I because we hate random people in the street being funnier than us plus the case for Firefox was going really well. Also right outside the bar was a carpenter doing some work. This saved us. The carpenter was way more interesting to the transvestites. One of them awkwardly hobbled up to him and, while he was working, pretended to kiss the carpenter on the bum while laughing hysterically. Yeah. There would have been a time that this would have been OUTRAGEOUS but, you know, that was two fucking centuries ago. Of course, Johnny and I could have just ignored this incredibly minor incident, it was none of our business, but it was kind of interesting to watch a Transvestite try to annoy someone while he's using a circular saw. What a wasted opportunity.
Johnny and I found a bar and did something I never thought possible: we did some work. Now that's OUTRAGEOUS. The bar was empty, quiet and had big comfy chairs. Perfect for doing a spot of work, we thought. Why did we think that? It was ruined immediately by cunting football fans who magically just appeared and filled the place. If I could do anything to make this world a better place it would be to ban football and imprison anyone who had a passing interest in it. Everything stops for football. TV schedules get changed, roads are blocked off and pubs get so rammed with shouting arseholes that you can't enjoy a pint. It was even worse when I got on the train back to Leeds. Not only could I not get a seat because it was full of men who painted their faces red and their embarrassed children who's faces were naturally red, I had to listen to their fucking singing. Lovely songs, they were too. Especially considering most of these pissed up cunts had kids with them. Lovely songs like "Arsenal are fucking shit, Arsenal are fucking shit, Lets kill them with an axe and rape their wives with an axe, Arsenal are fucking shit". It's only a game. A game that these fat, wheezing, drastically out-of-tune pricks can never actually play. I HATE football.
The gigs in Leeds weren't that great that day either. Both shows had the same problems. Pretty much any punchline was ruined by either a Hen Night bursting into talk or a Stag Do dropping their drinks. Friday was a lot better. Still, yesterday was just perfect. Lizzie Roper invited me and several others to her flat for lunch, some drinks and for her to talk about her minge. Even though she tried to poison me with dead animal flesh, it was a lovely day. The lunch was delicious, the company fantastic and Lizzie's minge stories gripping. We even played a game about books that was surprisingly not as dull as it sounded, mainly due to Lizzie's various outbursts about her minge. Thanks, Lizzie. That was lovely that was.
Now to Margate to pick up Jerk. It's been over two weeks since I've seen Jerk. At least now I can get all cross about dickheads in the park again, eh, readers?