I ordered Sky TV.

Posted on by JonnyB

Things that have kept me away from the computer – #2 in a series of 945722572.

“Are you sure?” I demanded of Man in Call Centre. “Are you absolutely, totally, 100%, cast-iron, definite, there-can-be-no-mistake sure?”

I received a leaflet from Sky TV. Normally, I throw all leaflets in the recycling bin straight away, since the postman has said that he is not allowed to do this. I do not know why I looked at this leaflet, which promised free Sky TV for three months with no obligations at all whatsoever, and £50 worth of M&S vouchers. There is not an M&S in the Village, but there is no reason why I shouldn’t travel to one, and the vouchers might come in handy for ‘Things that have kept me away from the computer #4’ (to be announced). I looked at the leaflet.

I read the small print. I read it again, and asked the LTLP about it. I held it up to the light to see if the word ‘NOT!!!’ was in very faint writing after the explanation. I looked up ‘sky tv offer +scam +ripoff +I will find r murdoch and punch his face’ on the google – nothing was to be found.

I ordered Sky TV. It is one of those things like book clubs, where they take your details and rely on you forgetting to cancel, so it is free for a bit then will cost one million grillion pounds per month. But I will not forget to cancel, as I have written it in the diary, written it in the other diary, written it on the LTLP’s Blackberry, written it physically on the leaflet and put the leaflet in the ‘day to day’ file that I look in daily, sent an email to myself with ‘DON’T FORGET TO CANCEL’, created a blog post that will appear automatically the day before cancellation date, set an online calendar thing to pop up and told Short Tony, Big A, and all the readers of my private secret diary ie you.

I will cancel it as I am not actually that interested in Sky TV. As far as I can tell, unless you want to watch the women’s senior matchplay golf in North Dakota or ‘Inside their minds: America’s worst sex offenders’, there is not much on there apart from Frasier every night and some good cricket every now and again. I do not really watch much television. I am just having my free offer because I can.

I have been trying to find new hobbies and interests that don’t involve sitting at the PC being a dweeb, and I am not sure that Sky TV is anything other than a bit of a cul-de-sac. I will give it a chance. But I do not think that it is the new ‘getting chickens’.

I arrange toilet training.

Posted on by JonnyB

Things that have kept me away from the computer – #1 in a series of 945722572.

Wee.

Wee lakes, gathering in the shallow depressions on the leather sofa. Wee cascading down onto the floor, first a waterfall then a steady drip, drip, drip. Pools of wee on the oak floorboards, reflecting the light of the TV screen in a mirror of wee; finding the gaps and joins in the wood with unerring wee accuracy.

Wee on my hands, wee on my socks. Small trousers soaked in wee, pants that comprise 23% pant and 77% wee. Tiny footprints of wee dotting the parts of the floor that are otherwise weeless. The ‘Review’ bit of the newspaper boasting a new ‘wee’ section, a golden-showered dolly with a glistening leg of wee, drips of wee in a dvd case, fingermarks of wee on the coffee table.

“I’ve done a wee, daddy,” explains the Toddler.

Between the cushions on the sofa is a large crack where biscuit crumbs and other assorted food collects. This now contains an interesting looking type of wee soup, which is particularly resistant to my efforts with the kitchen roll. I have used up so much kitchen roll in the past two weeks that ‘Bounty’ are going to present me with an award. Outstanding contribution to the kitchen roll market.

As far as I can tell, being a Toddler is like being pissed all the time – you occasionally walk into things, you come out with odd sentence constructions, and although you’re desperately apologetic when you wee yourself, you’re not actually much practical help in clearing it up. I chuck the dripping clothes in the washing machine, which gives me a ‘not again’ type look. The awards people from Persil phone.

I am not sure that I am very good at the father business thing. I am rubbish on the patience front, and I am too selfish to happily spend my life doing things to benefit other people. Oddly enough, the wee-clearing-up thing is no problem, however. Sometimes things are so spectacularly ghastly that you get a kick out of sorting them out.

I zip upstairs for new clothes. Most of the wee is mopped, courtesy of Bounty. I will check later on, and go over any sticky bits with some cleaning stuff. The Toddler is happy.

I saunter into the pavilion.

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“Norm!” I cry, giving a hearty back-slap to a man called ‘Norm’.

Big A follows me in. “Norm!” he echoes.

Norm gives us a sheepish look, like a defence barrister concluding his explanation of how the blood got into the jelly. I pull out my deeply unfashionable shoes from the bowls bag and return him a kind smile.

“It’s just that we weren’t sure whether we’d see you again,” persists Big A. “There was quite a lot of swearing and everything.”

Norm shakes his head. “I spent most of the next morning apologising. It was just, with tempers running high, and then words and stuff, and then he [jerks head] got involved, and…”

“We’re not really used to fights at bowls,” I reflect. “I think there were a couple of raised voices last year when a mobile went off inappropriately, but no actual physical violence. Did it come to that in the end?”

“I think it was just a bit of silly squaring up,” confirms Big A.

“Nice of you all to go straight afterwards, leaving me on my own to sign the cards,” complains the Club Captain, a man with a beard. We make apologetic noises.

“Anyway – good to have you back here,” I assure. I like Norm. He is a jovial and friendly chap; one of those people who is the heart and soul of a club.

My deeply unfashionable shoes are donned; I take my woods and my mat out onto the green to participate in a satisfying draw. There are no blows exchanged.

I go to the pub.

Posted on by JonnyB

“This’ll be all right,” I tell Big A.

We leave our bowls bags in the car and saunter towards the pub. He has a doubtful expression on his face.

“Pint?” I enquire.

“I’ll follow you in,” he replies, indicating his cigarette.

I am unused to going to pubs that are not the Village Pub these days. I mean, I go elsewhere for luncheons and the like, but not for drinking. Having seven pints further afield and then driving home is a bit frowned upon, even if Gordon Brown and his meddling nanny government haven’t quite yet got round to banning that last particular pleasure we have.

I walk into the pub.

“WAAAAANKKKAAAAAHHHHHH!!!” is the noise emanating from the saloon bar. It is not aimed at me, just at the world at large. I blink, and order a Guinness.

Taking a look and listen around, I have walked into the family bar. It is the family bar because it is full of children running around being shouted at by their parents. I decide that it would be more hospitable to walk through to the other room.

“You CAHHHHHHHNNNNNTTT!!!!” explodes the other room. Big A enters, looking around doubtfully.

“I thought we’d stay and drink these in the family bar here,” I explain.

There is a whirl from beside me. A barmaid scoots in from the other room and hides behind the door, breathing heavily. A colleague hastens up to her and provides reassuring words, clasping her shoulders firmly.

“It sounds quite busy next door,” I ask the landlady.

“Just some high spirits,” she replies. I glance at my watch. It is 6.15pm.

I am thirsty, so I do not linger over my beer. We leave and wander over to the bowls green. The Village Pub provides a microcosm of the gritty reality of life in 21st Century Britain, I know – but I sometimes wonder whether I should expand my horizons a bit more just so I don’t get insular about the world around me. I would hate that to happen. In a way, it was quite nice going to a pub that was a bit more lively and had some young people in it.

Later on, I lie in bed watching roaches climb the wall. I do think of giving my dad a quick bell so that he can stop it all. But he is on holiday, in Cornwall.