Thursday, 11 March 2010

The Journey under my husbands foot.

The journey under my husbands foot was really quite uncomfortable and rather messy

Especially messy at meal times.

However, who wants to know about the eating habits of a piece of turd? I'm sure you don't so I shall leave breakfast, lunch and dinner out but I have to tell you about the biscuits. When travelling under your husband's foot NEVER eat biscuits. The crumbs fly everywhere, your knuckles get smashed across the ground with the thud, thud, thud of feet and frankly, quite often, you choke.

Now Don't even get me started on the consumption of fluids!

The journey and fluid consumption don't make good bedfellows. Against all my better judgement, I actually tried to have a drink once. I'm not talking whiskey or Gin and tonic or any of the, gentlemen's lounge drinks. I am discussing your common laypersons fast-food milkshake.

The milkshake day in question should have been just another day under my husband's foot. We woke, we, belched, we peed and got dressed. Yet this day will be scarred in my chest as 'milkshake day' forever and after. He had breakfast and after lifting his foot up on to the sink so I could do the washing up, he decided to go for a walk. It was a long walk and by brunch time he had stomped his way to a fast food bar and ordered burger and a milk shake. It had been a particularly tiring day as the laces on his trainers were threadbare and they were hard to grasp onto as well as I used to be able to.

I wasn't hungry as I had spotted a piece of mars bar on the floor on my journey and had gulped that down but I was thirsty. Dying of thirst, I fiddled with my fingers as he ate the burger but I gazed longingly as he drank the thick creamy liquid, belch and place it on the table. I was so manic with thirst I just gave in to my better self that was bellowing a foghorn warning in my brain, wailing:

" Don't drink the fluids don't drink the fluids!"

As usual I never listened to my better self and besides I often deliberately ignored it on the consummate lie that my better self was stuck somewhere high up in the inner regions of my neurocranium and my belly was a brain, a mouth, a throat and miles of intestines down from there. So you can imagine how long it would take for a message to pass from my belly to my brain and back again! However, not listening to your better self can result in stupid mistakes, huge mistakes! As he stood to leave, I swung around on his foot and with an arm that had the precision of a cricket player swinging a bat, I swished my hand upwards and grasped it of the table. I grappled with it until it was secure within my sore knuckles and as he thudded onwards I rapidly gulped the thick liquid down. We had only travelled as far as the pelican crossing when I threw the whole lot up again. Barf after barf of thick chocolate shake spewing out my guts and all over my blouse.

Frantically trying to shake my clothes clean of mars bar and puke, I panicked that someone might see me being thudded along the high street and into a Virgin record store with thick brown puke all over me. Once or twice I noticed feet stand next to him and shuffle away again as he rummaged through the compact discs. I also thought I heard a couple of kids whisper to each other: "what's that stink man?" But my panic that I'd be noticed as the carrier of stink soon passed when I realised that chocolate shake is the same colour of turd, there fore no one would notice me covered in puke looking like turd at the bottom of his Addidas. After all it had been a long time since anyone had noticed me on the bottom of his foot full stop.

I should have learnt my lesson that time but no, I tried again with the chicken biryani a few weeks later. We wont go into that nasty episode but suffice to say I just stopped eating and drinking after that and stuck with fags.

Apart from setting light to his trouser hem on one or two occasions and some very severe warnings to him from West Midlands fire service I decided fagging it was a far more comfortable way of filling my stomach. The other benefit of just sticking to fags is that as you are travelling, under foot, there is a ready supply of nub ends on the floor that you can swipe up and spark up at your leisure. Happy days. Happier still if there was enough fag on them to light up and have a few drags. On more than one occasion, its my sorry tale to tell you, I would be a turd on a foot with blisters on my upper lip because some selfish bastard had thrown down nubs ends with no tobacco leaf in left in them at all.

Public Service Announcement: Pleaaaase, for the love of all people who are travelling the high street under some ones foot, LEAVE SOME TOBBACCO IN BEFORE DISCARDING OF NUB ENDS

When you are travelling 3 miles an hour and holding onto a foot with one hand and trying to spark a nub with the other you don't have time to check that there is actually any tobacco left in the nub. Hence blistered mouths. Infact, I bet half those ' cold sores' on women's lips are not cold sores at all; they are women who are too ashamed to admit that they have also journeyed under their husband's foot. More suspicious are these cold sores when they appear in summer and its 29 degrees outside. Hmmmmm? I thought so. Lets keep that to ourselves shall we? We don't want the whole world knowing that there are probably a vast number of us who have given up on biscuits and chocolate milk shake whilst on the journey. If the news got out McDonalds shares would plummet and the biscuit advertising campaign would go crazy with adverts showing delicious biscuits on TV every 3 minutes comparing the joys of lying in fields of wheat eating digestives to slumping around a concrete jungle with nub stub burns on your lips. That would not bode well for the world economy. Mark my words.

I'm becoming a bit of an expert on the economy. I get to read about it quite a lot actually. Every Sunday my husbands foot and I travel to the park and as he sits to feed the ducks there is always a Financial Times sheet crumpled on the floor by the park seat. Once I've managed to chuck the chips of it and sniffed the vinegar a few times to remind me of food, I actually enjoy reading the thing.

I read the other day that the world is falling into a deep depression and a recession is on the way. I'd just like to say to the Financial Times editor: I don't give a shit. There is never a recession for the poor because the poor never have any money to collapse. They have no money to collapse into the village economy let alone the bloody world economy so a word to the editor:

Spare some thought to those on the journey when writing your crap.

Why not write about how to eat biscuits and drink chocolate milkshake whilst you are under your husband's foot and the benefits of not having any money to bank and therefore nothing to lose so there ain't any recession? I guess that would be beneficial to most of the world actually, not just the 1% that have cash and actually read that nonsense.

If you had to research it, I bet there is a direct correlation between warnings of a recession and the upturn in the sales of the film; Mary Poppins. The same people that read the Financial Times are probably the very same people that watch re runs of Mary Poppins. They rewind and pause consistently on the scene where people placed tuppence in the bank and then some kid states something stupid like he actually wants his money in his pocket and there is a run on the bank. I bet they are trained to watch this scene over and over again as a shocking reminder of the ' tuppence' dark days all designed to make sure that tuppences' stay in the bank. That, tuppence mass hysteria never happens again. Furthermore, I bet there is a 0.5% statistical correlation on a recession and the number of people who buy mattresses. I bet there is also a mass rush to buy mattresses in the recession so the rich can stuff their money under it alongside their biography of Benjamin Franklyn. Come on it's a recession, don't tell me you are all investing in new beds? The rest of us buy mattresses so we can shove our fiver under it for the meter so the kids don't nick it and spend it on alchopop.

But don't even start me on mattresses bed or even sleep for that matter.

Like I said don't even start me on it. It's enough to say that farts stink. When you are stuck between the blankets under your husband's foot, farts reek. Farts reek and heat don't rise, trust me. Fart heat doesn't rise it circulates. It circulates its' pernicious gaseous stench and stays there till morning! Whoever said heat rises actually LIED. FULL STOP. Call yourself scientists?

Try this for a scientific experiment then ...be under a foot with a 5-tog duvet on top of you and then do your test! I thought so. You lot better go back to your laboratories and rewrite the book, mate. Whilst you're at your rewriting can you delete all reference to the pseudo scientists that class them selves functionalists please? I'm not talking Talcott Parsons and Durkheim. I'm talking the Jackie, Girl talk and Just 17 functionalist writers. If I hadn't been spoon fed their boy meets girl and girl falls in love with boy brand and they marry functionalist shit of crap I would never ever have found myself with sore knuckles, chocolate spew all over me and 'cold sores' in the summer.

So a word of warning to all my fellow travellers and those of you that also read that diatribe they pass of as populist entertainment, take one word from me. The journey under your husband's foot is uncomfortable and messy to say the least.