As loyal readers will know, Disgrace was recently relieved of his 'relationship' duties (ok, 6 months ago) and has been taking baby steps back into the world of 'stop leaving the towel on the bathroom floor', 'tend to my ego, NOW!' and playing second best to shoes. Having been single only once for a brief 5 month period since 1993, a well needed rest was, well, well needed. So, in this period I have been literally just hanging out. I've been reading. I've been sleeping. I've been boozing, but I'm not quite at the Copper Face Jacks stage. Yes, I've been offered dates. I've let some very lovely ladies slip through my fingers but I've been content. It's a satisfying feeling to be happy, and flying solo.
During the course of all this 'self love' (yes, self love) I've been invited to be Captain Gooseberry on a number of occasions. I have reveled in the role of 'dumped tall guy' and enjoyed it. It all went off without a hitch. Until now.
Lately, as third wheel, I have found the other two wheels begin to come off. My honeymoon period as novelty single guy has come to an end. I'm now becoming an embarrassing loveless lump of drunken typical single sleaze bag. I've arrived at my coupled friends dinners with kebabs in my hair. I have crashed DVD nights-in with the Bavaria special from Deveneys.
Only last week, I accompanied my besty and his missus to a private couples party. Seeking acceptance, I staggered unannounced through the doorway with the curios offering of a bottle of old Guinness. I proceeded to sit in the corner like a malfunctioning washing machine. Occasionally making noises that briefly drew the sort of attention that a Karaoke Fred West would at a Church fundraiser. To be fair, the host couple took my bubbling offensiveness with grace. They tended to me like I was a special child.
After mumbling in a language not heard since the Exorcist, and encouraging much watch checking, I unleashed the full powers of my destructive singleness. Yes, I broke stuff.
This in an official apology to Steve, and in particular to his wonderful 'beer glass'.
To see it shattered, and lying on the floor reminded me a little of me.
Ok girls, come and get it...
11 comments:
i laughed and then i cried a little inside, and then i laughed some more.
and then i blogged about it.
well done, sir. you are an inspiration, and the unwitting star of today's post over at mine.
suggestion:
this weekend we write poetry about 'feelings' and 'emotions'
or
we get drunk and obnoxious. which I should add is but an inch or two from our sober selves.
as third wheels go, there is no better wheeler dealer than yourself... keep spinning young man.
you have cursed me with celebrity Rosie, but I must admit it is satisfying to be cast into the limelight by simply moaning about everything.. I do that quite well I feel..
I once carried your wheel Fakey. Bushy Park, 1997 if you remember.
aw, Fakey's full of kind words of encouragement this morning.
keep away from the poetry, boys, you'll end up like my good friend Rua. one of him is quite enough.
as for your dublious celebrity status, you're welcome a chroí.
dubious celebrity status, rather.
[losing the run of myself now that you've gotten rid of the dastardly comment moderation]
Married too long, no advice to give. Except, as a 3rd wheel, don't try to hop on wheel 1 (or wheel 2).
Good old Rua, with a poem for every occasion it seems. Kinda of reminds of my Mother. She had poems for no occasions whatsoever...
surely there's a spare wheel in the boot that you could try to utilise?
it was 96 you gubber
At the beginning of that post, you were my hero, with your nonchalance and devil-may-care ways. You were so fly. And then you degenerated rather. But then - something about the breakage and the apology - you became my hero again.
Feel the pressure.
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