Monday
The job search continues for Beard Face. His latest idea was to contact the local council and see if they’d pay him to walk the streets and prevent people stepping on the cracks in the pavement or walking under ladders. He tried to reason that such bizarre superstitions were genuine and that he could prove it because the previous night he’d watched a program on TV called The Gullible Morons’ Guide to Superstitious Thingies. Sounds genuine to me!
Tuesday
The Christmas shopping is now done and it’s down to Beard Face to wrap all the gifts. This will take some time because movement is something he does find challenging most days. I can only assume that when he does occasionally go out running he does it in a near comatose state. I haven’t located any gifts among the boxes for myself or my fellow felines but I imagine there will be something stashed in the house somewhere. Beard Face usually labels stuff with unfortunate titles like “Pussy Gear” and “For the Pussies”. If cats could go red with embarrassment, we all would have done long ago.
The search was on for the next great game board game. It was a task beyond the Brown household.
Wednesday
Lord Sugar was up to his old tricks again on The Apprentice. This week he had the candidates inventing their own board games. Naturally the Brown household was very intrigued by all of this and felt the need to try and contribute our own ideas for board games. Charlie came up with Apocalypse Now and Forever!, Bilbo suggested The Cuddle Frizzy Hair Game, Razz opted for The Gourmet Feeling (sic), Frodo wanted to go with Pop Cat (music related, not inflating a cat and watching it explode), Beard Face came up with nothing and just picked his nose, while Frizzy Hair thought of a pirate game entitled Arrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Not great ideas I’m sure you’d agree but compared to one of the games on The Apprentice, they were a breath of fresh air.
Thursday
Frizzy Hair continues to talk to us all as if we’re felines with the mental capacity of cauliflowers. I was sitting near Beard Face waiting for the stupid oaf to get me some food and Frizzy Hair started gushing. “Are you looking at daddy?” she said. No woman, I thought. I’m looking at your prat of a husband whose only useful function is giving me a decent meal and he can’t even do that. The rest of the time he’s about as helpful as a set of traffic lights in the Arctic. Bilbo’s continued worshipping of Frizzy Hair probably doesn’t help her continued approach to us. We do love her but seriously, I’d love a grown up conversation one of these days.
Friday
Beard Face revelled in a Barnsley win once more. In the end it was a 3-2 win over Colchester but it was far from a relaxing experience for the old boy. He spent the first half in the toilet waiting for the score updates and the second half in a flatulent state in the garden. There was just enough air to spare the neighbourhood from being cordoned off by guys in NBC suits. Charlie was disappointed. He’s always been partial to men in uniform.
Saturday
Beard Face is really getting into Dexter even though he doesn’t always understand what’s going on. He’s nearing the end of Season 3 and confusion continues to take hold. At one point he sat there wide-eyed before shouting, “He was one of the Tommyknockers!” This was in reference to Jimmy Smits, of course, but he wasn’t one of the Tommyknockers, he was just in a TV adaptation of The Tommyknockers. It’s an important distinction and one Mr Smits is probably grateful for. Nice work in Dexter, sir.
Sunday
Just sat down to watch the tennis final between gorgeous hair Federer and rubber limbed Djokovic when Roger announced he wouldn’t be competing because of a back injury. I felt sorry for the old man but then had to make do with some exhibition matches involving Andy “Never Seems Happy” Murray and John “You Cannot Be Serious!” McEnroe. Charlie spent the time uttering McEnroe catchphrases, a way of telepathically inciting rage in the American but it didn’t have the desired effect. Perhaps Charlie’s telepathy method was to blame. He tapped the TV screen with one paw while tapping his head with another and chanting, “Feel the rage, Johnny, feel it. Come on. Feel that rage sliding into you like something slippery and wet.” I was just relieved only this household could hear Charlie’s words.
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