Monday, 25 June 2012

It’s late in the evening…

It’s late in the evening…

Long summer evenings. It’s still light outside. Short nights, long days etc, etc. Summer in England’s still warming up. Never like a F1 engine but in fits and starts, along with the inglorious promise of rain.

It’s nice. I am home. Sprawled out on the couch. BBC news on TV provides background chatter. Cooked quick curry for dinner, showered away the days action, in my old P road sarong and a vest. The sport socks the only clash with the rest of the whole ethnic look. But my balls are free, so I feel free. Especially as the small spliff I smoked after my shower is reaching the ‘space’ stage.

Enjoying that perfect mild English evening. I feel fresh as my long hot shower, my Old Spice deo and cologne I splashed on after. The Syrian conflict, England’s Euro Loss, and Cameron’s conservative strategy to cut back on welfare take most importance on BBC news. The rice cooker beeps. Hot basmathi rice and my spicy Chicken curry. Shall open a Publis seeni sambol jar to mark the occasion.

25th June is almost over. So is the month of June. Midsummer’s day already past. This June by far has been one of the worst months of my too long life. More days to forget, more days to wonder why you still live.

Life’s small pleasures. A hot shower, comfortable clothes, hot food and always the possibility/dream of winning the lottery.

Life’s big pleasures. In my case living in Kataragama. As close to Skanda as I can get. That right now feels almost like my chance of actually winning the lottery.

It’s late in the evening…

Wednesday, 20 June 2012


DD's Blog: THE ENGLISH FANS - COME ON ENGLAND!: For the English fans For the minge at the local pub with fake tan on but begins to look good after two or three pint goggles. Fo...

To the English fans

For the minge at the local pub with fake tan on but begins to look good after two or three pint goggles.

For the always skint, 30 something single working mother who works as a waitress at the Harvester who saves half a fag for after dinner.

For those of us who shop at Tesco first thing Monday morning. Wearing of course the Londsdale sweats we got on sale from Sports Direct. Not from the web, we go to the actual store in our retail shopping park.

To the teenage mom pushing her baby trolley on the high street. Tottering a bit as she had a couple of pints at her local.

To Tom, Dick and Harry. Their white vans securely parked outside their terrace home, now quickly putting on an England shirt ready for the pub to watch the game after a hard days work.

His mates already waiting for him at the pub. The ones on benefit. Those whose jobs all the bloody migrants have taken away.

To me mate and patron of purveyor of all goods related to civilised smoking. IT executive by day, want to be ‘rock’n rolla’ after 6pm.

To the old biddies from Manchester, the ones who carried posies all the way by train to hand them Her Majesty on her golden jubilee parade in London.

To the black cabbie that picked me up from Soho, took me to St. Pancras International and back, just to get to Chinatown, and yelled at me all the way to add insult to injury.

To the teenage girls from the English countryside. Those who give hand jobs to the local Moroccan drug dealer in exchange for drugs.

To the guy outside the West Hampstead train station stairs. The one who says good morning to me and gives me a heavy toothless smile in exchange for a few pence. Sir, I admire the collection of fan tattoos you seem to have collected over time.

For the bouncers at the worst pub on our high street, where even your pack of fags is checked carefully for drugs. Their thinking of putting a finger up the patrons butts too if the violence continues.

To the monthly, 25th of the month binge drinkers. Both men, women and others.

To the English who get into debt just to fly for the EURO2012 to support England. The ones who put on the shirt even if it’s watching an England game on the home telly.

To the real English fans

The ones who breathe and bleed England!

Come on England!