In With The Outlaws
I have no idea where to start with this post.
I think an apology might be best because this won't be as funny as any of the previous rubbish that's poured from my brain. As some of you may either know, or simply have worked out by now, when I'm suffering I like to make sure as many people as possible suffer with me.
Go and get yourself a glass of water. Keep it by the side of the computer. You'll need it later to get rid of the taste of vomit at the back of your throat.
For those of you still reading... Hello.
I am rapidly having to come to terms with the fact that I really dislike my inlaws. If you're married or living with someone and you think your inlaws are bad: No. No they're not.
It might help you to know that the mum has one volume. LOUD. It will help you to know that the dad looks like Roy "Chubby" Brown. It'll come in usefull for the nude scene later...
To begin with they drink. Not 'like a fish', as the saying goes, more like shoal. In fact if a fish drank as much as they do it would die. Like Mr Creosote.
The other problem is they live in Sheffield. Or to be more precise the problem is that they live far enough away that when they come down to Kent, where we live, they generally need somewhere to stay. Which would be great if they at least pretended they were coming down to see us.
We have a daughter who will soon be two in a few months and the inlaws are always complaining that they never get to see her. Not really surprising considering that whenever they do come down they go out drinking with their friends who live nearby. We're little more than an inconvenience in the place they are having to stay in between their mad alcoholic groping frenzies, or whatever the pack of them get up to when they are together.
Basicly, whenever the inlaws are staying over and their friends (who, for the sake of argument we shall call Tris & Chracy) call, they drop everything to go off drinking on a near daily basis. Of course by 'near daily' I mean hourly.
This led to the situation about a year ago where we get home from work to find my partner's (henceforth referred to as Spider) parents who were babysitting have taken our nine month old daughter to a pub.
Yes a pub. I'll pause a moment while you read that line again. A pub. In Gillingham. For those of you who have never been to a Gillingham pub, it's an experience. Try crossing 'The Deer Hunter' with 'Trainspotting' and you're part way there.
Cue us shooting off in the car to pick up our daughter, Spider arguing with parents and baby reeking of cigarette smoke - thankfully we've got her down to five a day now. I didn't expect to have to drag my daughter out of a pub until she was at least in her teens. They start them young in Spiders family.
So there you go, a big falling out and you'd think they'd learn. Wouldn't you...?
This week Spiders dad comes down to stay at ours on Monday. Her brother has also come down with his boyfriend but they are staying at Tris & Chracy's as we only have limited space in our flat.
Tuesday morning Spider & myself go off to work with the father supposedly babysitting for the day (he'd spent the night before running around visiting people so he would have the day free to spend with his granddaughter).
By the time we get home that evening her father is off his face in a big way. This is a man who had his gall bladder removed last year because he'd buggered it up with his constant drinking. In fact he had to wait a while for the operation because he was too damn fat with his lardy beer belly flapping about all over the place. Since the op he can't hold his drink- in both senses of the word. Not only does he get drunk quicker and heavier but once the drink is in him it attempts to escape through any available orifice. There he is on the couch, unable to move, clammy skin alternating between shades of white and green while he makes this horrible burping, ribbitting sound over and over again. He's also praying (as was everyone else in the room) that his bowels won't escape from his arse as they seemed to be trying to do.
From henceforth Spider's dad will be referred to as frogfather. Trust me, for anyone that has ever read HP Lovecroft, froggy was an exact copy of one of the freaks from Innsmouth, except Welsh (wonder if there's an Innsmouth in Wales...).
Luckily Spider's brother was on hand to provide the babysitting duties. The story was that Chracy's mum had apparently taken ill so she had to call frogfather over to give her some sweet loving.
Okay! I'm kidding! Sorry! God, I hope I'm kidding...
Frogfather dashes over with baby in tow and to console Chracy they proceed to get incredibly drunk together; whether this involved going out to a pub or was just in the comfort of Chracy's own bed, sorry, home remains to be seen. Frankly we didn't dare ask. To make matters worse he apparently tried to start a fight with some guy living across from Chracy before everyone finally decided to pack him back to ours.
Some babysitter.
How this helped Chracy we don't know, but when the pack gets together its any excuse for a drink. The four of them seem to think everything is an Eastenders style crisis.
"My mum's ill! Let's drink!"
"My mums dead! Let's drink!"
"Mum's alive! Let's drink!"
"My bowels have erupted out of my anus! Let's drink!"
"Where we're going we don't need bowels! ...Let's drink!"
On top of this someone seems to have been rifling through our stuff in the bedroom.
The first time this happened was before Christmas when Spider's parents were down. I'd bought Spider some of those Discworld figures for presents but someone had gone through our stuff and in the process they had stamped all over them. Luckily the figures themselves survived and it was just the boxes that were crushed. At the time I thought it was Tris & Chracy's children that had done it as the inlaws had invited them over that day and my poor innocent brain couldn't comprehend that a 'grown up' might be responsible.
Silly me.
When we got in on that Tuesday I found someone had gone in our room again, this time stamping over some of my comics and leaving shoe polish on the bed. My clothes in the cupboard had also been gone through.
Creepy, but I let it go. Anything for a quiet life.
Then comes Friday.
Spider & I head off for work, taking little one with us to her usual babysitter because, sing hosannas, the frogfather is going back home today.
When we get in that evening it turns out he's gone in our bedroom again, rifled through all of our stuff screwed up the bedding and, unsubtly leaving the cupboard door open, pulled out my underwear.
I can only think of three reasons to go rummaging around in someone elses cupboard.
1) Looking for Christmas presents
2) Looking for dirty mags
3) My underwear
I felt a little sick.
So thats my moan. Sorry if I've gone on a bit but I really needed to convey the full horror of the situation. Thank you for your patience.
As a reward I will leave you with this;
The next time you're having a bad day at work, tell yourself this: At least there isn't a fat Welshman currently rolling around in my bed naked, while he sniffs my undies.
You can take that sip of water now.
I think an apology might be best because this won't be as funny as any of the previous rubbish that's poured from my brain. As some of you may either know, or simply have worked out by now, when I'm suffering I like to make sure as many people as possible suffer with me.
Go and get yourself a glass of water. Keep it by the side of the computer. You'll need it later to get rid of the taste of vomit at the back of your throat.
For those of you still reading... Hello.
I am rapidly having to come to terms with the fact that I really dislike my inlaws. If you're married or living with someone and you think your inlaws are bad: No. No they're not.
It might help you to know that the mum has one volume. LOUD. It will help you to know that the dad looks like Roy "Chubby" Brown. It'll come in usefull for the nude scene later...
To begin with they drink. Not 'like a fish', as the saying goes, more like shoal. In fact if a fish drank as much as they do it would die. Like Mr Creosote.
The other problem is they live in Sheffield. Or to be more precise the problem is that they live far enough away that when they come down to Kent, where we live, they generally need somewhere to stay. Which would be great if they at least pretended they were coming down to see us.
We have a daughter who will soon be two in a few months and the inlaws are always complaining that they never get to see her. Not really surprising considering that whenever they do come down they go out drinking with their friends who live nearby. We're little more than an inconvenience in the place they are having to stay in between their mad alcoholic groping frenzies, or whatever the pack of them get up to when they are together.
Basicly, whenever the inlaws are staying over and their friends (who, for the sake of argument we shall call Tris & Chracy) call, they drop everything to go off drinking on a near daily basis. Of course by 'near daily' I mean hourly.
This led to the situation about a year ago where we get home from work to find my partner's (henceforth referred to as Spider) parents who were babysitting have taken our nine month old daughter to a pub.
Yes a pub. I'll pause a moment while you read that line again. A pub. In Gillingham. For those of you who have never been to a Gillingham pub, it's an experience. Try crossing 'The Deer Hunter' with 'Trainspotting' and you're part way there.
Cue us shooting off in the car to pick up our daughter, Spider arguing with parents and baby reeking of cigarette smoke - thankfully we've got her down to five a day now. I didn't expect to have to drag my daughter out of a pub until she was at least in her teens. They start them young in Spiders family.
So there you go, a big falling out and you'd think they'd learn. Wouldn't you...?
This week Spiders dad comes down to stay at ours on Monday. Her brother has also come down with his boyfriend but they are staying at Tris & Chracy's as we only have limited space in our flat.
Tuesday morning Spider & myself go off to work with the father supposedly babysitting for the day (he'd spent the night before running around visiting people so he would have the day free to spend with his granddaughter).
By the time we get home that evening her father is off his face in a big way. This is a man who had his gall bladder removed last year because he'd buggered it up with his constant drinking. In fact he had to wait a while for the operation because he was too damn fat with his lardy beer belly flapping about all over the place. Since the op he can't hold his drink- in both senses of the word. Not only does he get drunk quicker and heavier but once the drink is in him it attempts to escape through any available orifice. There he is on the couch, unable to move, clammy skin alternating between shades of white and green while he makes this horrible burping, ribbitting sound over and over again. He's also praying (as was everyone else in the room) that his bowels won't escape from his arse as they seemed to be trying to do.
From henceforth Spider's dad will be referred to as frogfather. Trust me, for anyone that has ever read HP Lovecroft, froggy was an exact copy of one of the freaks from Innsmouth, except Welsh (wonder if there's an Innsmouth in Wales...).
Luckily Spider's brother was on hand to provide the babysitting duties. The story was that Chracy's mum had apparently taken ill so she had to call frogfather over to give her some sweet loving.
Okay! I'm kidding! Sorry! God, I hope I'm kidding...
Frogfather dashes over with baby in tow and to console Chracy they proceed to get incredibly drunk together; whether this involved going out to a pub or was just in the comfort of Chracy's own bed, sorry, home remains to be seen. Frankly we didn't dare ask. To make matters worse he apparently tried to start a fight with some guy living across from Chracy before everyone finally decided to pack him back to ours.
Some babysitter.
How this helped Chracy we don't know, but when the pack gets together its any excuse for a drink. The four of them seem to think everything is an Eastenders style crisis.
"My mum's ill! Let's drink!"
"My mums dead! Let's drink!"
"Mum's alive! Let's drink!"
"My bowels have erupted out of my anus! Let's drink!"
"Where we're going we don't need bowels! ...Let's drink!"
On top of this someone seems to have been rifling through our stuff in the bedroom.
The first time this happened was before Christmas when Spider's parents were down. I'd bought Spider some of those Discworld figures for presents but someone had gone through our stuff and in the process they had stamped all over them. Luckily the figures themselves survived and it was just the boxes that were crushed. At the time I thought it was Tris & Chracy's children that had done it as the inlaws had invited them over that day and my poor innocent brain couldn't comprehend that a 'grown up' might be responsible.
Silly me.
When we got in on that Tuesday I found someone had gone in our room again, this time stamping over some of my comics and leaving shoe polish on the bed. My clothes in the cupboard had also been gone through.
Creepy, but I let it go. Anything for a quiet life.
Then comes Friday.
Spider & I head off for work, taking little one with us to her usual babysitter because, sing hosannas, the frogfather is going back home today.
When we get in that evening it turns out he's gone in our bedroom again, rifled through all of our stuff screwed up the bedding and, unsubtly leaving the cupboard door open, pulled out my underwear.
I can only think of three reasons to go rummaging around in someone elses cupboard.
1) Looking for Christmas presents
2) Looking for dirty mags
3) My underwear
I felt a little sick.
So thats my moan. Sorry if I've gone on a bit but I really needed to convey the full horror of the situation. Thank you for your patience.
As a reward I will leave you with this;
The next time you're having a bad day at work, tell yourself this: At least there isn't a fat Welshman currently rolling around in my bed naked, while he sniffs my undies.
You can take that sip of water now.
posted by The Neath at 9:53 pm
8 Comments:
I don't know what your problem is, they sound a very nice couple to me!
you know what they say - one man's misery is another man's laughfest!
perhaps you could write a novel about it and get rich quick.
Who'd believe me?!
It's like an episode of 'When Soaps Go Bad: 7'
Remind me never to piss you off!
That was me being restrained.
You should have seen the unedited version!
'The next time you're having a bad day at work, tell yourself this: At least there isn't a fat Welshman currently rolling around in my bed naked, while he sniffs my undies.'
I don't know what the fuss is about...we have a fat Welshman rolling around in our spare room all the time...occasionally we feed him, but more often than not the smell of my pants seem to satisfy his desire for food.
His name's Keith by the way. he says hello. he also says his tongue is sore.......
Sad thing is he's not joking. Korova wears knitted undies made only from the finest wools. Keith says the texture & smell reminds him of home.
to get round inlaws problem ..move to SMALLER house ergo no room for them to stay , OR ask them to stay in hotel for duration of stay as you have NO room for them now baby neath here (as they wont want to pay for room no more hassle) and as a brucie bonus hotel manager will throw the drunken pair out when pissed .
no worries simple
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