I received a text from Dan this morning on my mobile phone this morning. He was asking, well telling me that he was coming with Simon to mine this afternoon to watch Sexy Beast.

For those not in the know Sexy Beast is an excellent UK gangster type film and not an illegal beastiality movie like it sounds.

It’s one of those films you never seem to get bored of and even though I would have preferred to be in the park, enjoying the sunshine and playing football I was content to be entertained by Ray Winstone and Sir Ben Kingsley.

After the film we turned over to ITV to watch the football – Argentina against Germany. A tricky game to both predict and pick a team you would like to win. Both are scum. Choosing the team to follow during the match is like choosing which form of capital punishment you would like to be executed by.

Gentlemen, you’re all Kuntz

After the football Dan and Simon both left, Dan to meet some more of is old friends I have never seen and Simon to do whatever he normally does when he is not watching or playing football. Pimping?

I was left all by myself. I watched the Italy/Ukraine game, a very one sided match and a very good performance from the Italians. I seriously think the can win The World Cup and if England are not to become champions themselves, I hope it is them. The Italians make such delicious food.

Dan eventually came home to my Free B&B around 22.30, saving me from the clutches of Davina McCall and Big Brother. I have managed to steer myself clear from the reality TV show for the last week but was getting sucked back into it through shear boredom. Dan, thank you for saving me. You’re next task is to visit the visit the Big Brother house and blow it up.

He’s gone!!!

Now don’t come back you useless, lazy, sack of crap.

The only problem now is finding a new Leeds player to be the brunt of all my jokes!

It looks like Dan will be spending tonight at my house after he chose me to put him up for the night. That is all well and good, I have no problem with people staying over at mine, it’s just Dan… well… he doesn’t exactly like sleeping on mattresses, sofas or spare beds.

Like a cat or a dog, he likes to climb into other peoples beds for nothing more than warmth and a comfortable night’s sleep. I do not know where this bizarre quirk started, but everyone who has ever invited Dan to spend a night at theirs has experienced this.

I am slightly worried that Dan will try to sleep in my bed tonight, something I do not really want. I have made his airbed as comfy as possible and may make mine as uncomfortable as I can. I have also made a guide for him to read in case he gets confused…

Permitted Sleeping Places

This is Sean’s bed. You may not sleep here.

This is the air mattress. It has been specially prepared for you. You may sleep here.

This is a washing machine. You may sleep here. I cannot guarantee you will fit in or not die.

This is a pile of cardboard boxes on the stairs. Climb inside, they’re warm. 9 out of 10 tramps love them.

My friend Dan (of DanintheMix) came to Bath yesterday. White and I met him at the station and once he arrived we headed off into town. The first stop was the cinema, Dan had a craving for an Ice Blast and as The Odeon is the only place in town which sells them we had to go their first.

While in The Odeon lobby, slurping our cocktail of ice and E-numbers, we noticed a poster for World Cup games that are being shown in the cinema, on a big screen and in High Definition. We thought that watching the quarter final between England and Portugal in the cinema would be a fucking brilliant idea!

After booking tickets for the game we went to the park for quick game of football before heading back to mine for some nostalgic television and tasty food in the form of Maid Marian and Her Merry Men, a whole pallet of strawberries each and a packet of spicy chicken wings – a wonderful combination.

I got up this morning to find that Dan had sent me a message saying “Meet me in town at 10”. A slight problem as it was 9.23 and I was still in bed. I eventually got to town for 11 where Dan, Simon and I went on the hunt for breakfast.

I came to the conclusion today that on weekday mornings, Bath is full of fat, slow old women. We went to Mark and Spencer’s in search of some breakfast, the place was full of old biddies, full of them. It was like Land of the (Nearly) Dead.

I honestly believe that old people just go to M&S for a day out and why not? There are clothes for them to buy, a nice coffee shop on the top floor, numerous toilets in case of incontinence and escalators connecting all these facilities together, eliminating the need to climb stairs and almost halving onsite heart attacks.

The M&S café was shit. A typical old women’s café like you may see in Last of the Summer Wine. It sold cake, tea, cake, coffee, cake, sandwiches, cake, orange juice and cake. Now Me, Dan and Simon all like cake, but not for breakfast.

With M&S declared unsuitable we went to British Home Stores, another shop infested with coffin dodgers. They had a better café than M&S and we were able to enjoy a hearty, full English breakfast. Dan was also very tempted by a thick slice of cheese cake but his arteries sent a warning message to his brain advising him against it.

After brekkie it was shoe shopping. As I have mentioned here before I hate buying clothes of any description. If I could I would wear one pair of shoes forever, but my current pair were beginning to fall apart and become rejected by my body. I was in and out within 10 minutes, which is acceptable I suppose.

After that it was off the JJB Sport, we needed a football for the park and Dan wanted some Nike trainers. He refuses to wear anything else, there is probably a sponsorship deal going on somewhere, either that or is he is very vain.

We got pair of balls for a fiver, Dan couldn’t get his shoes although took some considerable interest in a pair or women’s Nikes. A puzzled shop assistant approached, probably to inform Dan that the trainers were in fact intended for ladies. Dan left. Fast.

We then went to buy Slush Puppies, another favourite of ours. Dan yet again proved to me and Simon that we cannot take him anywhere when he randomly blurted out “Simon! Are we going to meet your yob mates in the park?” The old lady who worked in the sweet shop with the Slush Machine looked puzzled – the same kind of look the shop assistant in JJB had.

We finally got to the park where we played some good football for about 3 hours. Simon was very good and taught us both some tricks, it was like having a master class from Wayne Rooney (kind of). Dan was good but got very hot and sweaty. I think he also got very frustrated and let out a very loud cry of “C*NT!” following a nasty tackle.

After a whole afternoon of running around in the heat, kicking a ball around we left – knackered. Hobart and I staggering back to my flat on Newbridge Hill – even professional footballers drive home from training – not fair!

Hobart is now sitting in my sofa drinking coke and burping. He is pissing around on his phone and waiting for me to finish blogging so he can blog himself. His phone keeps going off. It’s annoying. I haven’t told him yet but if it goes off again I am going to put the phone in the fish tank.

Last night I went to Mr. White’s house, or as I have now re-branded it “Mr. White’s Concentration Camp”.

The plan was to go for a quiet, relaxing evening and a few beers, White however seemed to find it necessary to cause me a considerable amount of stress.

Firstly, while we were sitting outside in the garden he thought it would be funny to give me a soaking with the garden hose whist watering his plants. Not funny White, not funny.

Later on that evening we were all sitting around the garden table when I noticed that a large amount of runny bird diarrhoea which had been commented on earlier was missing. White then tried to trick my brain that it had been flicked onto me. After checking my clothes, hair and every other nook and cranny I realised that the shit was not on me. Still, not funny White, not funny.

As the evening drew to a close we were sitting inside watching Lost on E4. White the Concentration Camp Sergeant and I have already seen all of Season 2 on our frequent trips to the US (and NOT torrent downloads) and caused annoyance for the others watching it by revealing plot lines from future episodes.

White then thought it would be funny to terrorise me even more by punching, or as he called it “tickling” me in the ribs. Again, another trait of a Concentration Camp Sergeant – “This isn’t a whip I am hitting you with, it is a sponge and I am massaging you”.

I was tired and wanted to rest peacefully on the sofa, yet every time I begun to relax, White’s long and bony fingers were dug into my body. He probably wanted to steal my heart and had he had any ratchets would have tied me down reached for my chest shouting “Gallima… gallima”.

Well that was another frustrating game for England and certainly not a performance to convince anybody to close the streets of London in anticipation of a World Cup victory parade.

I watched the game out the back of a local pub with Simon (whom I watched the T&T match with the other week). It was a dirty, hot and smelly room which was full of chavs. One of which was blowing a damn whistle throughout the whole match. I was hoping that they would inhale it, choking to death and therefore shut the hell up.

There was some Vicky Pollard type girl sitting at the back who kept Simon and I amused during the tedious moments. She showed why you should never bring your girlfriend to watch the football.

About halfway through the first half she piped out “What’s Alex Ferguson doing on the bench?”, to which everybody looked bemused until somebody pointed out to her that it was in fact Steve McClaren the England coach and soon to be manager.

She became very anxious when the goalkeeper Paul Robinson took a free kick from the corner flag “He’s out of his box! Why is he out of his box?” She also started shouting hysterically when Joe Cole picked up the ball to take a throw in “He’s picking up the ball! Why isn’t he getting in trouble?”

Still, England won thanks to David Beckham, who by the way I haven’t slagged off at all during the tournament, unlike most people who seem to hate the man. The only ones I dislike are Frank Lampard and Owen Hargreaves, who are just like a pair of chefs that keep dropping their pancakes… useless tossers.

I did manage to catch the game between Holland and Portugal, I say game, it was more of a fight. Four players were sent from a referee who handed out more cards than a blackjack dealer. England will play the winners Portugal on Saturday. Whether Portugal have any players left to take part is another matter.

Oh, and after all that I still found time to make a mix for the game. Stick it on your MP3 player tomorrow and relive what was a truly excellent game of football! :o)

Yesterday afternoon (before I went to the park) I went to Garden Centre to buy some more fish. Two weeks ago I bought 3 Danios and was told to come back this weekend to get another 3. I also bought a motorised gravel cleaner as the manual one I have is a real bitch to get going, I normally end up with water and fish shit everywhere.

And then there were six

So, last night I had 6 happy fish swimming around the tank. I got up this morning to find that one of the new ones didn’t look very well. He had a long streak of yellow shit hanging out his arse and all the other fish were avoiding him, as opposed to trying to eat the turd like they normally do. He was also hanging around the waters surface and within an hour of me getting up he was dead.

I now have 5 fish. Some of my friends thought that getting a pet was a bad idea as I would kill them. I’ll say on this occasion it was not my fault. It died within 24 hours of arrival and in theory I could go and get a £1.50 refund.

Thou shall have a fishy on a little dishy…

A funeral did take place for the deceased creature who also received a proper buried – flushed down the toilet. Unlike the hamster, this time my pet didn’t get stuck in the U-bend.

This afternoon was spent in Victoria Park with friends, soaking up the beautiful weather and enjoying various games of football. Beautiful stuff.

It was a great fun, even though my calf muscles and legs are now aching from all the footy. I haven’t had a decent kick about for a long time, I’m not that good to be honest, I did try though and by my reckoning, that alone warrants a place for me in the England national side, well if Owen Hargreaves can get in…

Around 8ish we all left the park and decided to head for Mr. White’s house for a barbecue. Even though there is often a lot of trouble at Mr. White’s functions, he can throw a decent BBQ, I’ll give him that. We went via Sainsbury’s where we picked up meat, coal, beer and all the other essential ingredients required.

The coles took ages to light and after all the exercise, coupled with the fact I didn’t have a proper lunch I was starving. Had I left it to others to get it going, by the time it finally was alight I would be dead, covered in flies with a belly protruding half-way to bloody Boston!

I took matters into my own hands and cooked a burger under the grill. OK that is cheating and totally defeats the whole objective of a BBQ (the smoky flavour, anticipation while it cooks, risk of salmonella) but I was eating before anybody else and I was happy!

Once my hunger needs were resolved, I did tuck into some delicacies off the BBQ, all very nice, most notably BBQed corn on the cob. This is lovely, especially with a bit of butter on the side. Anyone having a BBQ over the summer really should try it as it is simply divine.

As it approached midnight I decided to leave, I was getting tired, others were getting drunk, one girl was very pissed (I suspect she drank the majority of a vodka bottle) and I didn’t want to get involved with another war between White and one if his neighbours. I recommend all police leave be cancelled immediately.

Lastly, in between trips to the toilet I did manage to catch a few moments from the Argentina – Mexico World Cup game. The Argies are very, very good and I predict they’ll win the tournament. It’s just a shame that they’re a bunch of diving, cheating c***’s – and they really, really are. There is more acting in an Argentinean match than a William Shakespeare play. They go down like they have been shot for the slightest of things and are violent little twats themselves. I think come Friday I may do something I have never done before… support the Germans in a football match.

I am now off work for a couple of weeks. As I am not going on holiday anywhere it that leaves me with a lot of free time, effectively I am unemployed. So, what do the unemployed do? Stay in bed until 2pm, wander around the place in only their pyjamas and watch Trisha on television… maybe. It’s an idea if things get really dull.

Later in the week Mr. Hobart is coming back “home” to Bath for a few days. So no doubt there will be some madness there, probably involving a Nintendo 64, ratchets, bucket of KFC, non-alcoholic lager and some used underpants (don’t ask). Blood will be spilt, most likely from the veins of Mr. Watkins.

I went to The George pub with Mr. Watkins again last night. He was very late, mainly due to events out of his control. He runs an internet café and when it was time to close for the evening his customers didn’t want to leave.

I observed the customers over the webcam as they took their time in ending their internet sessions, while Mr. Watkins scurried around the café politely asking them to “Please fuck off”.

One customer caused me great annoyance in refusing to leave (well, that’s what it looked like over the webcam). I have asked Mr. Watkins in future to physically unplug the café’s network router next time. Either that or physically remove the customer.

Anyway, Watkins eventually made it to Bath and we headed for the train station to get a taxi to the pub. We joked that “Uncle Albert”, the scruffy looking taxi driver who has picked us up the last two weeks would be there – he only bloody was! Never has the term “We must stop meeting like this” been more appropriate.

Watkins and I were a little worried by the fact that he was waiting for us AGAIN, so instead of climbing aboard, we decided to hide inside the station, peering out from behind the windows, waiting until he drove off. The trouble was that he didn’t, he even got out of his car for a rest!

We decided to sneak off and head for another taxi rank, as we were escaping somebody else got into his taxi and he drove off. Hopefully we’ll never have to get a ride from him again, however something tells me that we haven’t seen the last of “Uncle Albert the Taxi Driver”.

We arrived at The George where I had Sausage and Mash. We had to wait for a whole hour for the food to arrive. During this period I got extremely bored and started to play around with a candle that had been placed on the table.

You can have a great deal of enjoyment with candles in restaurants – sticking your fingers in the hot, melted wax and then allowing the wax to solidify, breaking the rim of the candle so the wax pours out all over the table. I had a lot of fun but I also made a big mess, totally befouling the candle. Apologies to any waitress to had to clean it up.

Watkins came back to mine after as it was too late for him to make the train and bus journey home to Bristol. As always he slept on the inflatable air bed. As I was dosing off after a long, tiring day I heard what I thought was breathing. I turned on the bedside light to find out what it was and saw Watkins staring at me. This shocked me and I instantly let out a loud, high pitched scream. Any neighbour or flatmates must have been more than a tad concerned. Watkins is now officially a bastard and following the Carling trick in The George last week I owe him two pranks!

I am not happy with tonight’s game. I haven’t got much to say on it so I’ll leave you with another transcript of various texts sent between Dan and myself duting the match. Oh, and this mix I made.

Myself
(after Owen injury)
Shit. Poor Owen. Can you play as a striker?

DanH
Lampard should be shot. Again

Myself
I would do the shooting but I only have one bullet – for Sven

DanH
Rooney’s striker reminded me of Lampard., who is c*** of the month for the second time.

Myself
I hope you’re not calling Rooney a c*** as I would have to strongly disagree with you. Rooney is not a c***, except when he plays for ManU.

DanH
No I’m calling Lampard a c**t and now I’m calling you one too. C***. I’m doing a get well card soon for Owen. Care to sign?

Myself
Yes, I will sign it – “Why was it you and not Hargreaves?”

DanH
(a quote for fans of The Simpsons. This was sent during a stressful moment)
“Let’s just say I’m sitting in the right chair”!”

I’m off to bed. Good night.