I don’t know if it’s better going back to work after a really good weekend, cost or worse (because you really know what you’re missing).
Friday night is my favourite lazy TV-watching night, approved and you should have heard the strangled yelping noise I let out at the news that my favourite anti-hero, view Mr Jeremy Clarkson, was to be guest presenter on Have I Got News For You. As my brother rightly pointed out, I wouldn’t have gone out if you paid me. The West Wing was also rather ace – I’d say Kristin Chenoweth makes a valuable addition to any cast, though if you gave her her own show she’d probably drive you mental.
(Haha, if you’re still stuck for DVD ideas for Christmas William, this comes out today – described thus in Jeremy’s Saturday newspaper column (swiped from a copy of the Sun that was lying on a table in the tub, so I didn’t have to miss my favourite trashy weekend reading despite the fact my dad was in the Lake District this weekend):
[A]s the title suggests, it’s full of all the world’s best cars – which I drive around, very quickly while shouting – and all the world’s worst – which I kill using a selection of hammers, chainsaws and dynamite.
And if that doesn’t sound like the greatest two hour’s entertainment ever, you are more sad than even I.)
I spent Saturday with Sarah and my godson Ryan, who seems to double in size every time I see him and who now has six tiny teeth he’s not afraid to use. Saturday night’s plans sadly changed at the last minute (next time m’dear, and I’ll hold you to that) but my brother and Claire whipped me out to the pub before I even had time to finish watching Casualty. We went to the charmingly-named Crow Bar first of all (it is in Paisley, what did you expect?) – a dingy establishment full of gloomy-looking youths in dark clothing and band t-shirts which played heavy metal completely out-of-sync with Kerrang! TV on in the background. I don’t understand bars where the music’s too loud to talk and the tables are too close together to dance – there seems to be little else to do but stare gloomily at the other patrons while knocking back your drink as fast as you can. Which is what I did in my hurry to get out of there, and probably why I spent our first half-hour in the next pub huddled over the toilet. It was a really good night though – the chat was good (although my brother now knows several of my more… um… interesting stories), the late-night cheeseburgers and lollipops were better, my sister woke up to a ten-minute voicemail that made her day and a certain lovely lady kept me up half the night. Oh, and Bombay Sapphire? It may look pretty, but I’ll stick to Gordons from now on, fanx.
I spent most of Sunday in a pyjama-clad downloading splurge, then fell asleep on my sister’s floor when I should have been helping her with an essay.
It’s impossible for me to listen to The Weakerthans and not feel better about myself. It’s Monday morning, my stomach’s playing up and I’d give anything to be on a plane to… oh, Mexico or something right now but they’re a band who save me time and time again from hurling myself in front of the traffic on St Vincent Street (although it’s nose to tail most mornings, and I doubt ever hits a top speed that could do me much damage). I’m sure “Aside” is one of the mp3s I have up at the moment, and it’s omg lyk the gr8est song EVA.