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Mother knows best August 8, 2010

Posted by normanmonkey in Friends, QPR, West Byfleet.
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The album cover - DT, Lou, me

If I ever declare again that I am going to have a quiet weekend, shoot me, bundle me in a taxi to Stringfellows, but whatever you do don’t let me spend a weekend alone in West Byfleet with my thoughts. There’s nothing wrong with West Byfleet, it’s my thoughts that are cause for concern. They cover the broad existential canvas of life, death, Jimmy Hill, will the milk be off and the eternal question of who put the fag butt in my jar of English mustard?

Recently I’ve boarded a train at 6am at Waterloo only to have woken up back at Waterloo at 10am having gone to Woking and back several times, but its not as bad as getting up at 6am to go to BBC Television Centre to oversee an interview on the news for a client and be home at 10am wondering what to do with the rest of the day that doesn’t involve me sitting in the kitchen with the remote control or dodging bird droppings in the garden as I brave an attempt to read the papers al fresco.

This afternoon I drove past a field of cows and their calves in a field not too distant from my home. I decided that it may be invigorating to go for a walk, look at the cows, embrace my environment and engage with nature. By the time I got there the cows had moved to a faraway field meaning I was reduced to staring at a vacant field full of cow dung. How’s that for perspective?

Even the warm glow of 4-0 win for Queens Park Rangers and a sublime performance from Adel Taarabt, the Zidane of Shepherds Bush, couldn’t lift me after trekking a fair distance to stare at stationary little piles of shit on a field (though that’s what one had been accustomed to with QPR for the past 15 years).

A winning day at the Rangers had been a welcome distraction. Half-time entertainment was supplied in the W12 Club by the waitress who had decided to whip away Blewett’s bottle of Magners when it was still two-thirds full. His facial expression at seeing a cleared table was worthy of an action replay and analysis as much as anything on the pitch.

This quiet weekend all seemed like a good idea after a night out with colleagues at a leaving do for Koala, a dear Australian friend and colleague, who has been hitherto known as Fiona. When anyone leaves Cow PR, it’s emotional, but with our first ever marsupial hire returning to claw bark in Melbourne, it was like a death in the family. These farewells are emotional, involving a small of introspection, reminiscence and justified sentimentality, but mostly a vat of Jaegerbombs, wearing shades indoors at first sight of a camera or whatever else will make you look like a tit in the cold light of day and staggering in the Shoreditch nightclub, Mother at 4am. Without sounding overtly Oedipal it always ends in Mother, is certainly tragic in the Classical sense and and if she knows best, we certainly do not.

Alternatively, I could and should have been in Ibiza for a week for a friend’s 30th. At my fragile age, the possibility of a succession of hectic late nights combined with my weak character traits, it all seemed unwise. After a couple of days I’d have needed to crawl under a rock somewhere with a book and a Bach soundtrack to soothe the shattered system.

Robbie in the office went and in preparation decided a session under a sunbed would do him the world of good. The self-proclaimed ‘Robsta Da Limehouse Gangsta’ came into work the next day as the Limehouse Lobsta and, getting more raw with the passing of every hour, had to have the subsequent day off with sunstroke. Pale gay boys from the valleys must not be left unsupervised when on a sunbed or the consequences are disastrous.

This is not to say there wasn’t further drama on his day of departure. I overheard Robbie talking gravely on the phone with his hand stroking his red raw brow in despair. Tentatively, sensitively I approached him some minutes later to inquire if everything was ok, fully expecting to hear the villa had burned down or there had been a death in the family. ‘Oh no, babe’, he replied ‘My sailor outfit hasn’t arrived! I don’t know what I’m going to wear now on Thursday’.

Perhaps, just perhaps, I’m better off here after all. Even though this particular Sunday has been a trial of the will it was all over too soon. Hello Monday.

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Comments»

1. HC - August 9, 2010

Stumbled across this, what a great read, enjoyed it thoroughly. Not least because I have QPR in my accumulator. So far so good…

2. Blonde - August 9, 2010

Introspection may not make you feel on top of the world, but it can’t possibly make you feel any worse than Jaegerbombs. Fact. (Unless you think more deeply than I do. Which is a huge possibility.)


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