Captain Turdseye

I had an exercise bike in the house here. Not an expensive one, hundred quid or something. It never got used, ended up being one more thing that needed dusting. I flogged it on Facebook a while back. Now I’m trying to lose weight I reckon I’d have been using it but, alas. I’m not cut out for going the gym.

This was two weeks ago. I drove us there last week, in part because of the week before. My boy isn’t one for confrontation, so after I’d caused this scene in the cab, he stormed off over to my bird’s mum & dads (which is where he lives in between uni terms) in a drunken huff. All fine the day afterwards of course but I decided to just drive down last week instead and kicked his arse 6-1 when I was sober. We’ve just left that pub and got a taxi home tonight, but this time it was a proper cab, so we’re both in the back. We’re both in good spirits tonight even though he’s just lost 8-0 and I’d got my highest ever break. (26. Twenty-Fucking-Six) Within 60 seconds of getting in the taxi it was abundantly clear that he was fucking around and going a different way to run up the meter. If you lived in this town you’d know that there’s no two ways about it. I held my hands up as if to say “told you so” and he held his up to indicate that I was justified in my argument last time. We spent the rest of the journey home taking it in turns to query his route home in a proper piss taking manner to the point we’re laughing at each other’s sentences in the back of the cab. Fucking cunt company, really. Anyway, last time the driver got a tip off the boy to apologise for my arguing on the way home. This time the boy paid on his card. No tip. A nod of appreciation to me afterwards. Fair enough, I was right last time, even though I might not have gone about it with much subtlety. 26. Twenty-Six.

I haven’t had a proper neighbour spat for ages. Everyone in our bit of the street is sound now. Instead, I’ve resorted to bringing mates down from up north, moving them in a few streets away, and irrevocably falling out with them.

I was watching an old episode of House of Games with Turdsette last night and on the ‘Distinctly Average’ round one of the questions was how many people in the UK held a gym membership at the end of 2022. The answer was just shy of ten million and Osman went on to say that three out of every four of those memberships go unused.

Swimming doesn’t count, shirley? I’m going swimming with my kid today. The closest I’ll come to real exercise is climbing the steps for the flumes. Sudbury’s got a wave machine.

I much prefer the little snooker club in Towyn.

Meh, it’s the General Forum. Objection denied.

Never been in a gym in my life. I once met a fella in the doorway of one where he’d arranged to sell me some ecstasy pills. That’s the closest I’ve ever been.

Shut up, you. They were patriots, all-American heroes from all around America. The bravery on display that day on behalf of their true president was awe inspiring.

Roberto Phoenix is a better name though. You can’t argue with that.

Or the Championship.

Someone posted an article on GOT about 777 owned Genoa. Apparently they’ve cut the wages to turnover ratio from 100% to 45% in two years. That’s gonna be a fun experiment in the PL.

I’m not complaining, by the way. 777 owning them will be great fun for regular readers of this thread.

Surely that’s what the ‘fit and proper’ owners test is. Prove you’ve got the money (or a chicken business) to sustain the club for three years and you’re good to go.

This new news says “conditional approval” Hasn’t that been the case all along? Meet these conditions.

It’s not done yet. Administration is still on the table. It’d probably be better for them in the long run than being owned by 777.

In the pub the other night and the most cockney bird I’ve ever encountered gravitated towards me and my mate, coked up to fuck, wouldn’t shut up. Bruv, G, not in my yard, ya undastand me, etc, etc. Kept trying to show us pictures of her mate who “Got cut up, bro, no cap” We left that pub after one drink to get away from her. I was telling this story to my missus last night and as soon as I said “the most cockney girl…” she stopped me and said she knew who it was, told me to stop talking while she got the bird’s Facebook page up. It was her as well. Turns out it’s her mate’s niece who she’s told me tales of before. She’s not from London, never lived there, born and lived in this town over an away from the smoke her whole life. Fucking bizarre, people don’t talk like that here. She’s 35 years old, this broad, and she’s white. Mental. Think about the worst plastic scouser you’ve heard (not me, Stig, you knob) and multiply it by ten.

This hasn’t aged well.

I’m gonna pop in on the way home from the school run. The barmaid lives four doors up from me. Maybe she’s grabbed it for me. Anyway, sorry for derailing the thread.

A couple of my mates (comrades) in the Labour Party have been banned for much less than the stuff Owen Jones has been putting out there.

Can’t remember. I was absolutely wasted last night. On the Jägers and everything. Left a decent jacket in the pub. Hope he beats his dad’s time.

Bear in mind that I’ve been the pub, I really really ought to have met your mum in person by now. It’s mad that it hasn’t come to pass so far, but fair play to Champ Jr, if her boy is gonna do a marathon it might’ll as well be the big ‘un. Go ed, Jamie. Smash it. Fingers crossed you make it all the way. Best of luck mate. Hope

Any chance of him being the one to finally smash the two hour barrier?

He still hasn’t asked his aunties or grandparents yet, so that should bump him up a bit more. His training is all on the treadmill at the gym most nights. He reckons it takes him six minutes per kilometre but I’m not having that he can do 10k at that pace. He can still pile through mountains of food though, which is fucking infuriating to watch while he’s home from uni and I’m on a diet.