Last weekend I declared a public holiday for one and all. I hope you had a better time than I did.
Travelling to Manchester was not itself a horrid journey. Mrs H and myself were singing (otherwise known as shouting and howling) to tunes by Queen and James and Jon Bon Jovi. Rocking out all the way to the grey skies of oop north.
We arrived at the hotel, only to be met with lies, anger and hatred.
After breaking a door and swearing at the car parking machine, we were awarded a free staff parking permit for the weekend.
Sometimes it pays to kick off – but remember to be grateful and thank the staff for their help when problems are resolved.
Having sorted out the fiasco of the parking we hardly had time to pick up our bags from the floor before a drunken Mancunian welcomed me home with the offer of a fight.
I didn’t have time to do a double take before being told “I’ll take you outside and f*ck you up” which was nice.
I opened the door for the man, and promptly told him to hurry up. It turned out he had interrupted my request for the car parking situation to be resolved to ask for the third time that afternoon if his missing wife had turned up. She hadn’t.
Posturing over, he buggered off and left me and Mrs H to go to our room.
Our room greeted us with equal distain. Missing pillows and no hot water only exasperated our joint desire to re-pack and journey home.
|Lenny Henry can kiss my arse if he thinks I'm coming back here!|
Things didn’t get much better once we were out in the city centre.
What with the two premiership title contenders pushing each other for dominance in the league of kicking ball it seems that the desire to be in front has seeped into the mainstay of each and every idiot in the town.
No more so than the tricky task of buying pints of beer at a bar did this instinct bring itself to the fore.
Having been next in the queue to be served, I took my eye of the game and instantly found myself stuck between three bigger boys.
I gave up.
We went somewhere else.
The night ended a bit of a damp squib and Saturday was rubbish.
Sunday however – official Bumferry day was a much better affair.
Waking up with Mrs H’s cold, I found that breathing required more concentration than it should.
But it was Bumferry day and I was not going to beaten!
|Thanks Mrs H... Thanks a lot!|
We met up with friends (and Dave) and we drank and drank and drank...
We drank so much. And it was good. Even Dave, who never buys a round – bought a round!
It was unbelievable.
DAVE BOUGHT A ROUND OF DRINKS!!!!
True, Dave left before it was his turn again, but still. Dave buying drinks is like a solar eclipse. A rare event by any standards. (we shall learn about Dave in the future)
|Hating Dave is a full time job.|
In summary, we drank, we laughed, we coughed and sneezed. But we had fun until kicking out time.
There was no fighting, no pushing and shoving, no overly loud music. Just simple happy times.
That is what Bumferry day was supposed to be about.
Bumferry Eve was crap.
Bumferry Day was Great.
Bumferry Boxing day however, brought with it the biggest downfall of my immune system in years.
As I write this I keep hacking up bits of lung and other inside bits.
Worse thing of it is I’m not even ill enough to have the day off.
I’m just on the right side of having to carry on regardless.
Only another year to go.
I doubt I will be going back to Manchester for a long while though.