Sunday 4th July 2010
I’ve just burned my nuts, that’ll teach me to wander naked about town on a hot day with my love tackle exposed to the fiery caress of the noon day sun (Lie detector says NO) Okay, that was a fib. I would never dare wander naked in public, for a start my nuts wouldn’t be the only things in danger of a fiery caress if the boyfriends caught me exposing myself to the public at large. Masters of kink and depravity they might be in the bedroom, but outside of it they’re really rather prudish.
The burned nuts in question were ones I put in the oven to toast and then forgot about. I was planning on making a hazelnut meringue and I always toast the hazelnuts prior to crushing them to fold into the egg whites. I only meant to leave them in the oven for a few minutes, but I started watching a DVD and forgot about them until the acrid smell of smouldering filberts assaulted my nostrils.
The film I started watching was called Gabriel. I bought it while shopping in Tesco yesterday. The cover attracted my attention. It’s not everyday you see a half naked, well muscled winged messenger of God clutching a huge firearm while standing under what appears to be a sudden cloudburst, but is probably meant to be heavenly rays from above. ‘Between Heaven and Hell lies the fate of Mankind’ said the blurb on the front. Cool, I thought, and chucked it in the basket. What was it like? In a word, shite, or if you prefer two words, absolute shite!
I didn’t watch the whole thing. I took the burning of my nuts to be a sign from God to give up on it and eject it from the player before the chronic dialogue set my ears bleeding. The lead baddy had what looked like ping-pong balls for eyes and the love interest was a drug taking prosser with a weird mouth. She never brought her lips together, her mouth was permanently open in a kind of O shape, even when she was speaking, it was like she’d just had a ball gag removed and was about to perform oral.
It really was a terrible film, worse than watching England’s performance in the World Cup. What a fucking debacle that was. I nearly registered for Welsh citizenship in protest. There are Eunuchs out there with greater skills at ball control than the England team. Thank God I didn’t invest in any flags and bunting, I wanted to, but Shane wisely wouldn’t let me.
We watched the fateful England-Germany match over at Leo’s place last Sunday. It ended up being a miserable day for me in more than one respect. Spirits were high to begin with, especially when we scored but they soon plummeted after our second goal was disallowed. Moments into the second half it was obvious we were witnessing a team in defeat. After that the only high spirits in evidence were the ones Leo mixed into tall glasses and handed round as a means to dulling the pain of watching Germany slaughtering us 4-1…except to me of course. I had to make do with being handed a soft drink. You can’t drown footie sorrows in a soft drink. I was annoyed. I get sick of being excluded from special occasion alcohol camaraderie.
Annoyance made me foolishly reckless and I tried to have a crafty quaff of Mike’s vodka and lime by picking up his glass in ‘mistake’ for my glass of Sprite. The ice in his drink was nothing compared to the ice in Shane’s eyes as he clocked me raising the glass to my lips. I knew he’d sussed me; he has eyes like a bloody hawk, especially where I’m concerned. I gave a sheepish grin, said ‘oops, almost’ and quickly set the glass back down, but he wasn’t fooled for a second. Chilly eyes made an even chillier silent statement, clearly reading: just wait until I get you home.
There were a lot of grown men crying that Sunday night, mostly on account of seeing England crash out of the World cup. This man however was crying on account of having his alpha Daddy’s hand crash about his bare bottom for trying to break a sacrosanct rule. I tried to insist it had been an accident and as such I shouldn’t be disciplined, particularly as I hadn’t managed to imbibe so much as a sinful sip. He said if it had indeed been an accident then the spanking would serve to make me less careless in future and if it hadn’t then it was a well-deserved punishment for sly misbehaviour. I didn’t get much sympathy from beta Daddy Dick, but then that’s nothing new lately. He told me he was disgusted with me, which hurt just as much as the spanking Shane meted out.
Anyway, enough chuntering from me. I only popped in to open a page for July. Boyfriends are out at the moment. They’re sailing the seven seas, or at least a large reservoir with Captain Pugwash and Master Bates (Leo and Mike) They’re all coming back here for dinner, so I’d better go magic up a dessert to replace the meringue I was going to make before a foul mouthed, gun toting archangel Gabriel destroyed the key ingredient. Angels eh! They ain’t what they used to be. I think I’ve got some canned peaches and evaporated milk in the cupboard. I’m sure the Daddies won’t mind a simple plebeian dessert for once. I’ll tart it up with a bit of food glitter, stick a Jaffa Cake on the side and call it by a fancy French name - les glittery pêches avec le gâteau de Jaffa.
Ciao for now
