Do it Yourself

We go to B & Q, D needs some bolts, he asks me to go with him, I agree if he promises that he will seek out the bolts, then leave. When we get there, he star

ts to look at hose attachments, monopolises a young assistant for 15 minutes describing how he wants two connections...blah...blah...blah. When the yo

ung man takes his leave I state that I am bored stiff. D reminds me that he had to trawl around graveyards while on holiday. Up and down the aisles, internal doors, drills, cork mats and various galvanised items later, I begin to hum Olivers Army....and I would rather be anywhere else than here today. Meanwhile, D is just about having an orgasm as we pass the hedge trimmers, alternatively, I would rather be boiled in oil or poked in the eye with a big stick.

The car radio is on as we travel on to town, an item on how Harry will not be allowed to go to war in Iraq. The Muslims say they won`t kill him, just cut off his ears. D comments "They should send Charles then, his ears could do with a bit of a trim."

After a little retail thereapy, we go to Laboca, it`s packed, B is serving and running around like a blue arsed fly. We order cheese toasties, coffee and a diet coke (The coke for D) D drinks his coke off in one, then asks B for another "Bugger off, I`m busy." then he brings the drink immediately, laughing as he does so.

We move on, passing Greys monument, the usual complainers are out in force.... and the Christians, the happy clappers. The Army has a recruitment stand and as they try to entice the disaffected youth of the city, an old dear, around 70ish is busily skittering around in front of the soldiers giving out leaflets Troops out of Iraq Don`t Attack Iran. She glares at the lads while sucking her teeth in a very aggitated fashion, the boys in berets are oblivious, flexing their muscles looking hard.

Coming out of TJ Hughes, one of the bars on the corner of the Bigg Market is packed to the rafters, there`s a football match on widescreen t.v. Four Scottish persons look in on the drinkers, one of them a scrawny looking individual, Mohican peroxide blonde haircut with brown roots, who looks pissed already at 2.00 in the afternoon, shouts out in a broad Scottish twang "That`s a faggots bar." Two Geordies laugh at him nudging eachother, obviously don`t think he`s any challenge. What he will find out if he talks like that in the evening in the Bigg Market, is that even the so called "Faggots" can pack a punch in this town. Life is hard, and I dare say he will have learned his lesson by now. Hold on a minute...till I fetch a leaflet from the army... there`s a nice young Scottish lad who wants to join up!!!!!