Soy un Perdedor or The Child That Scoffs Kebab on the Sabbath Day is a Loser.

Sunday, 14 August 2011

Today is Sunday.

If you're of the religious bent you'll be at church (assuming you're Christian, of course) dressed in all your finery. God wouldn't be happy if you turned up at his house in shorts and flip flops.

If you're a traditional type of person that wasn't attracted to the 'shopping with violence' event of last weekend you'll be roasting a great big joint of beef and awaiting the arrival of your family.

If you're a runner you would have probably been up early and performed your weekly LSR (long, slow run).

If you're John Kynaston you would have done all three.

Well, beginning with the first of those Sunday events, I'm of the belief that the Most High dwelleth not in temples made with hands, so I gave Church a bit of a wide berth this morning. Instead I took Mason (dog) to the park.

Now while God may not dwell in man made temples I don't think he hangs around Ashtead Recreation ground either. If he does and he's responsible for the empty beer cans and used condoms he can bloody well get his sorry arse out of bed and clear his shit up (if you're reading this Big Fella, and being omnipresent I kinda guess you are, that was a joke by the way).

Regarding Sunday event number two on my list, I like to consider myself a traditional type of guy and there's nothing I like more than a slap-up Sunday dinner with all the trimmings. However, as a single father whose daughter has infinitely cooler things to occupy her time on a Sunday than dinner with her old man, I can't be arsed to cook for myself. What's left has a hierarchy of sadness that goes something like this:

A few weeks ago the absolute sadness of buying one of those microwaveable Sunday meals-for-one had me almost slitting my wrists. Then, in an act of out and out snobbery, and desperate for a Sunday dinner, I decided that a Marks & Spencer Sunday meal-for-one was quite acceptable. However, the act of eating it alone, on my lap, in front of the telly was full of such in-your-face sadness it may as well have come from Lidl.

I tried going to the pub for Sunday dinner. Apart from the fact that this type of behaviour has friends labelling you an alcoholic for occasioning a licenced establishment during daylight hours, the quality of pub grub round these parts ain't that good. So while, on the face of it, 'eating out' might appear quite sophisticated, the 'ping' of the microwave oven from the pub kitchen and the fact that you're publicly eating alone makes this infinitely more sad than eating a radiated meal at home and in secret.

Today I plundered the depths of saddoism to such a degree that I'm quite disgusted with myself. In fact, I'm so utterly disgusting that my estranged sister, whom I've heard nothing from for years, contacted me to slag me off. Yep, today I realised that microwave meals for one and being Billy No-Mates in the pub are one thing; but hitting the local kebab shop for your Sunday dinner is in a league of saddoism of its own.

I mean, the shop is open on a Sunday so you'd expect the proprietor to welcome the custom. But I'm sure after I said:

'Large chicken kebab, plenty chilli sauce and a can of Coke. Oh, and is there any chance you can arrange it on a plate clockface fashion with a dollop of horseradish sauce on the side? And put Songs of Praise on the telly?'

I caught him making a letter 'L' on his forehead and ringing my sister and saying:

'We've got that loser brother of yours in here asking for a kebab for his Sunday dinner! Ha, ha, ha!'

Anyway, after my kebab I headed off to the running club to complete Sunday event number three on my list. Now this club has a membership that are such a collection of motley individuals it's almost as alternative as my Sunday dinner. 

No LSR for this lot. No Siree, it was an hour of hill sprints before they all scuttled off wittering on about  roast pork and crackling.

If you thought you were about to get a descriptive rundown of the training session with split times and all that other bollocks, forget it. I've got indigestion.



aka Johny Smash said...

Awesome read hahaha

sheri said...

I laughed so hard my s ides hurt! I lve you and your humor, Dave, well done. :-)

Anonymous said...

You should have got one of those Marks 'n Spencer Meal Deals for 2, for £10, including bottle of wine.

You could have given Mason (dog) all the food, and worked your way through the bottle of wine for yourself. Made a race of getting through your respective offerings in a Man vs Dog speed gorging.(That would have been the competitive exercise bit of the day taken care of).

Mason (dog) should have been happy, having eaten food-for-2-people (well, M & S appetited people); and you might have been marginally less miserable with a bottle of vino collapso inside you.


Ali said...

DISAGREE!!!! You are not sad and you are not a loser.

You're a stubborn, bloody minded pain in the arse who views the world in black or white and refuses to listen to those people who love you and know you best.

Stop feeling sorry for yourself, stop picking fights just for the thrill and get your finger off that fucking button.

Love you always

Ali xxx

Debs M-C said...

I'm reaching for the Gaviscon just reading that :-) x

Mike Reginald Mason said...

excellent post Dave....the pathos overflowed....but great Beck clip..:-))

Fiona Rennie said...

There are loads of family that would welcome you round for Sunday lunch, it is your own stupid fault that you live so bloody far away!