5/4 Easter Weekend - is it Monday already!?

DIY.

Fucking DIY.

In an ideal world, you would be able to click your fingers and the job will be finished and, due to the actual clicking of said fingers, you would feel like you have accomplished something. My finger-clicking was nonexistent this weekend as, after much deliberation, I decided to clean the soffits and clear out the guttering.

It's a shame that this statement isn't a risque double entendre describing some sort of carnal act that is banned in most countries. No, I actually opted to do some hard graft and make the house look a bit presentable. I thought that, if I blind people with a whiter-than-white gloss finish to the front of the house, it would hide the shit-hole that lurked behind the front door.

If I could have one thing on my headstone when I die, it would be "Never use a 'paint-on' paint remover without the prescribed list of personal protective equipment"! I know that's probably a bit long but I'd get a discount on the "P"s. This stuff is lethal. As soon as there was a slight spillage that ended up over my (rubber) gloves, there would be a subsequent burning sensation which eked me along further. I'm guessing it's the only reason I managed to finish the front of the house in two days.

I have blotchy red hands, aching wrists and arms, tired legs and a slight headache from inhaling paint fumes. All in the name of saving money. I'm thinking about all the expensive hospital bills in years to come and just paying someone to do this sort of work for me in future.

Chance will be a fine thing. I did win a tenner on the lottery this month which will pay for next months supply I suppose. I've never been a gambling man - sport, horses, dogs... you name it, I'll ignore you and look the other way. However, fruit machines have a tendency to blink in a way that makes them sexually attractive and I just love shoving hard cash into their filthy slots.

I needed to spend a penny whilst out on a survey last week and had to use a bookmakers. They did their best as I walked past those glamorous cash-hungry computer prostitutes, blinking £500 jackpots and the 92% payout chances. I wasn't having any of it. I went to the loo and even bought a cup of tea as a goodwill gesture to the shop owner. Finishing my pee and walking back towards the exit, I felt my change jangle in an alarmingly unusual way and accidentally pushed the now jubilant coins in the direction of the closest machine to me.

Lights flashed, computer programs rolled and the chance machine balked and laughed at my poor misfortunate currency as it gobbled it down. Then something weird happened. I'm not sure if the machine had a virus or it was expecting someone else but it flagged up the big game and, all of a sudden I was printing out a receipt with £200.00 and walking back to the counter. I'm pretty sure there was a sincere expression of hate as the bookmaker counted out eight twenty pound notes, two ten pound notes, two five pound notes and ten pound coins. The cheeky twat. The coins paid for my parking and a Tower Fillet burger.

Which brings me onto South Park! The funniest episode I have seen in a long time and I'm certain they write, make and show it in a two week turnaround. This particular show had references into the sick bastard priest who abused up to 200 deaf boys in the seventies and eighties. They didn't hear him coming, obviously! This coupled with a KFC/ Scarface sub plot, Randy getting cancer on purpose so he can buy medicinal weed legally and using his testicular cancer ridden balls as a means of transport made me laugh so hard I felt that twinge in my groin again. Need to check that out...

Lastly, I've eaten enough food this weekend to live on for two weeks so the diet is back in full swing on tuesday. I've had a shitty cold which has stopped me going to the gym and I'm hoping that will be gone by the middle of the week so I can return to using their power showers and not my horrible dribbly luke-warm excuse for a shower.

Work tomorrow... New month, new target and new set of problems. Still, Neeson will be on hand to cheer me up - maybe I should ask him about my balls?