Grease.

No baby-sitter she said. We’ll have a nice cosy night in watching the telly she said. Why would I want to do that I replied. Now the daft bitch is in a huff. For what I have no idea. She wants ME to sit in the house on a Saturday night and she’s got a hard neck to go in a huff. She was told, I don’t do sitting in on a Saturday night. No fucking danger MRS, not me.

Saturday night telly or the pub … mmm … . Right first of all she’s sitting gushing, literarily gushing watching Grease, a film where people fucking sing and dance, and its over thirty years old for crying out loud. After that there’s a program trying to pick the next Travolta and Olivia whats’er’name. Well I could have done without the first ones never mind more of the soppy gits. On the other side we can watch as grown men make utter idiots of them self’s on national TV. Joseph, my god its depressing. Not quite as depressing as Fucking Casualty, I’ll give them that much but my fuck, its shite. On Sky, The wonder that is one hundred channels we have, Who Killed Mr Burns an old Simpsons.

The daft cow is trying her best, trying to engage me in conversation about how the grass is getting long and how it needs to be cut. TELL SOME ONE WHO GIVES A DAM MRS. Besides cutting the grass is her job not mine. I never wanted the garden in the first place.