Charlotte and young Frankie are away for a midweek jaunt visiting some relations on Merseyside (the young lad was last heard of careering around a back garden in Formby wearing only a nappy and a Postman Pat T-shirt), so I've got the whole night- and the whole house- to myself. Now this doesn't happen very often so I need to consider my options. Now then, I suppose I could....
1- watch some of the World Cup.
Of course! Only there's a snag. In a remarkable oversight FIFA have given all the teams two days off to prepare for the quarter finals. What are they thinking of? Do they not realise we are all hopelessly addicted by now and are liable to break into a cold sweat if the blanket TV coverage is interrupted for even twenty minutes? Hell, I've even taken to devouring the Guardian's minute-by-minute match reports on matches I've just watched all the way through on the telly, for God's sake. How the hell am I going to last until Friday? I need an urgent fix, and I need it now...a dodgy penalty decision robbing a plucky African outfit of a historic giant-killing victory...a dastardly French forward reacting to a slight shove in the chest by going down clutching his face as if pole-axed.... hell, I'll even take a puffing, red-faced English midfielder ending an untidy melee on the edge of the box by latching onto a knockdown and scuffing a speculative twenty-yard effort harmlessly wide. Anything, anything, you can give me to release me from this damned football-free torpour, I implore you!
2- Pull myself together
Now then young man, there must be some more worthwhile way for a strapping fellow like yourself to spend his time, what? I know, how about we...
3- Log into the internet betting account I opened with my Grand National winnings and put some money on the World Cup.
After all, nothing like losing money hand-over-fist to raise the old spirits now is there? I've been putting on a pound or so a day in an effort to prove conclusively that my Grand National windfall was a never-to-be-repeated fluke. So far I'm doing quite well. Spain to win the tournament at 8-1, anyone? Czechoslovakia to finish top of Group D? Holland to beat Argentina in a thriller, 3-2? I'll stop now before we all burst into tears.
4- Tidy the house.
Well it costs nowt- and I might even find a pound or two at the back of the couch to fritter away on France to beat Brazil 19-7, or something equally preposterous. Anyway I like tidying the house, as long as there is no-one else in it to interfere, for instance by asking why I have just thrown a pile of very important correspondence into the bin, or re-arranged the entire kitchen in order to get the kettle more pleasingly aligned with the toaster. And when I've finished doing that I can...
5- Take all of Frankie's toys out of his toy box, and put them all back in again, making sure to pack them very precisely so that they all fit as absolutely snugly as possible and you can close the lid.
This is my favourite tidying-up task of all. No, really, it is. Think of Tetris, only with multicolured plastic caterpillars, Tonka Trucks, and fluffy Koala bears. Ten points away if when you close the lid you manage to set off that really annoying toy radio, and so you have to take everything out to get at it, and even then you can't get it to stop, cos it hasn't got an off switch (what kind of sadists do Fisher Price have working in their design departments, anyway?) so you end up picking it up and hurling it through the window and into the street, and deciding you've had quite enough housework for one day. Time to...
6- Answer the door to find pair of skinny young ne'er-do-wells in shiny suits, brandishing clipboards with my name mysteriously written on them and trying to sell me cheap electricity.
Of course I gave them short shrift. 'Get out of it you young whippersnappers- can't you see I am enjoying a very rare night with the house to myself here? I've got to manhandle an entire train set and fourteen deluxe wooden skittles into this here plastic box from the pound shop on Stockport Road, fritter away £3.50 on an ill-advised flutter on Ukraine versus Italy, and drink two large bottles of Premium Italian lager, for God's sake. Do you think I've got time to deal with young upstarts wanting to hawk electricity, do you? I've got a houseful of fucking electricity, you shysters! Now fuck of out of it!'
Damn, I feel better for that. It is getting late though. Maybe I should...
7- do some of those little jobs Charlotte asked me to do just before I came on the computer there.
Now then, what were they again? Something about the washing, was it? Watering the plants? Or was I supposed to put the entire family savings on a score draw between Germany and Argentina at the rather tempting odds of 11-4? Yes, I think that was definitely it. I'll be straight onto it as soon as I have managed to...
8- have myself a little sleep.
Well it's tiring all this Home Alone business isn't it? So much responsibility. And you can't expect a man to make executive decisions on the outcome of England/ Portugal without the sharpness of mind only a teatime siesta can impart, now can you? Actually someone at work told me it was national siesta day today, but I can't really be bothered to Google for it, so we're just going to have to take their word for it. Hold on a minute though, what's that banging sound?
9- it's that pair of young shysters hawking electricity again!
They've come back, the little bastards. Got confused about the housenumbers and started knocking on the same doors again. Is this sort of thing not covered in their training, like leaning contemptuously on gateposts, sneering, and reading out in an unattractive drawl aggressive sales-pitches designed to frighten housebound pensioners? I'll set the dogs on you, you little con-merchants. Or I would, if I had any dogs. Where are dogs when you need them?
10- Make myself some dinner then go and depress myself by turning on the telly in vain hope of World Cup highlights and ending up watching Newsnight instead.
Although I don't know, Newsnight can be quite cheerful sometimes. You know, in a 'They've just discovered a hole in the ozone layer the size of a planet and we're all going to die' kind of way. Maybe tonight it will be Jeremy Paxman devouring a junior Tory Home Affairs spokesman alive, or one of those cultural ones where you get to nod along sagely to Germaine Greer and Tom Paulin talking about films you are never going to see and books you are never going to read, and using words you don't really understand the meaning of like 'Dissonance' and 'Neo-Modernist'.
But it doesn't really matter does it, because Tom Paulin and Germaine Greer are inside your telly, so they can't see you frantically poring over your dictionary, or for that matter pouring an extra helping of Oxo gravy on your hastily-assembled, and very neo-modernist dish of Asda Veggieburgers, reheated cous-cous-from-yesterday, and vanilla ice cream.
Dissonance you're wanting, is it? We've got it in bloody spades, man. Right then, I'm off to do number ten before it is too late and they've got Open University on or something. Before I go though... thank you for all your interest, comments and emails on the four-part Wolverhampton trilogy (and, I think, a special mention to our Clare for her virtuoso masterclass in how to conduct a heated debate with yourself over the course of a week and with virtually no outside assistance. Although, like Looby said, a readiness to disagree with yourself in public is indeed an admirable sign of strength and we should all probably do it more often). Seriously the whole delving-into-my-distant-past thing there was most fascinating- and the sort of emotionally exhausting but ultimately rewarding, creative, and surprisingly collaborative exercise I could never have undertaken if I didn't know that you weren't out there hanging on my every word. I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did... although it's safe to say we will be back to bus rides, Greggs pasties, and seriously flawed World Cup betting tips from now on, at least for a little while.
Oh- and to the long-lost person from Wolves poly who emailed me between parts three and four to share his recollection of the trilogy's main character- yes, I think you were dead right, bonny lad- wise beyond your years, even! And I will be in touch, oh yes....
Love the idea of you frantically consulting the dictionary while consoling yourself that Greer, Paulin etc can't see you doing it...
Greggs pasties - now you're talking. I look forward to a whole post on the delights of the steak bake...
Posted by: Ben | June 28, 2006 at 11:42 PM
John and I actually fell for the cheap electricity scam a couple of years ago. I thought it was a Queens thing! Are Levenshulme's European plazas not safe from corrupting influences?
Posted by: abby | June 29, 2006 at 02:47 PM
There's something in the water this week, because Girlonatrain has been all comtemplative as well lately - but with an economy of expression that I'd find impossible.
I know what you mean about the World Cup. I've been pacing the room for the last hour making girlf feel nervous, as I'm suffering the same withdrawl symptoms. We could be in a triple World War with nuclear weapons heading at us from North Korea, Iran and Pakistan simultaneously for all I know, but I'd know less about that than whether Hargreaves will start on the left against Portugal, or reaction in Stockholm to Sweden's defeat to Germany from those fascinating little bits the Guardian translates from foreign papers.
And tomorrow, when it all starts again, I'm working from 12 till 11. Bum!
Posted by: looby | June 29, 2006 at 10:16 PM
Yes, Girlonatrain is keeping us all guessing there... perhaps Beth's fascinatingly cryptic series of posts will be featured on Newsnight Review tomorrow night and Tom Paulin will explain to us what they are all about. Although I must say I am quite enjoying the uncertainty and suspense in the meantime...
As for Hargreaves on the left- well I suppose he has played everywhere else, and Sven is clearly making it all up as he goes along so I can't see why we shouldn't. I'd keep Carrick in the middle alongside Gerrard, drop the big wheezing girl's blouse Lampard to the bench, and bring back Crouch to spearhead a 4-4-2 alongside the boy Rooney. Although of course if you ask me again tomorrow I will tell you something entirely different.
Posted by: Jonathan | June 29, 2006 at 11:01 PM
I was going to leave a comment.
But I think a respectful silence is probably best just now.
Posted by: beth | July 02, 2006 at 08:12 PM