The Balkanisation of Battersea

Friday, 15th August

Friday provided more questions than answers. Desperate to find something interesting in the Olympics, I turned to the political issues. No, not China’s woeful policy on Tibet, a much more pressing sporting point. How come Roger Federer, and Lionel Messi are allowed to play their respective sports, while professional boxer Amir Khan, khan’t? If anyone knows, please let me know, it’s been bothering me for years. However, a brand new conundrum struck me today – it must be at least five years since people used a 3 ¼ inch floppy, so why, even on new operating systems, is the save sign an out-of-date disc? Lastly, are accents contagious? Steve McClaren, the wally with the brolly, gave an interview to a Dutch interviewer yesterday. He affected a pseudo-lowlands accent, ‘Vee are – how you say, unterdogsh, mashive, unterdogsh.’ I know that I sometimes come home from work, positively South African, but pretending not to speak your own language, takes the bishkit. I finally emailed BoJo, to volunteer my services for the London Healthy Eating Campaign. Let’s see if I get a response.

I deposited Perry with the Nelsons this evening, for his trip to Majorca. That child travels more than Paul Theroux. I got home to prepare the Chinese crackling pork belly for supper. Two and a half hours the recipe said, unfortunately I hadn’t read the bit that said …and overnight drying time. Bugger, bugger, bugger. So we went out for Tapas.

The Balkanisation of Battersea continues. Once we got to the local, Troy got accused of being small-minded, and childish, over this whole Dynamo Square/Sparta Park business. Why can’t people see that if anyone ought to make an apology, it ought to be the boxheads. Perhaps when Condoleeza Rice has finished in Georgia, she could pop into The Castle.


Saturday, 16th August

Down to the Arndale, for a bit of pikey shopping. Superdrug or Boots? I know which side my bread is buttered. Walking past Adams reminded me of when Xanthe was cast for a shoot, aged about two and a half. She was meant to be modeling their Christmas occasion range, and was going to be featured, life-size, in-store. Fluff and I drove to Brighton, and met the stylist. Xanthe turned her toddler nose in the air, ‘I not wearing they clothes, they’s yocky. I got much better clotheses at home.’ I hung my head in shame at my middle class daughter. ‘Perhaps we could try some make up on you?’ Ventured the stylist. I looked optimistic, Xanthe loved make up. ‘I not wearing make up, I is perfickly pretty as I is.’ Oh God. We had to go home, fashion tails between our legs. Troy and I squandered a couple of hundred quid in Game, including buying Resident Evil for the Wii, with guns that you fit the remote and the nunchuck into. Oh yes! Now even PS Troy is prepared to give the Wii a go. We had a house full of scousers and Sunderland fans tonight. Troy cooked his signature chilli, then served the North-Easterners some sour grapes to go with their hard cheese. The football season has restarted. One nil to the Arsenal. One nil to Liverpool.


Sunday, 17th August

Beth came over, and Reggie went through her usual palaver. She has taken against Lord Crumpet of Knowsley, and Beth gets caught in the crossfire. We went to meet Leo and Victoria at The Waterfront, for lunch. Fantastic roast chicken, with crispy skin, Yorkshires and the works. We discussed everything from conspiracy theories, to movies, and everything in between. I am finally cooking the pork belly, having overnighted it last night.

I lost yet another bet to Troy tonight. That makes it 170 million quid I owe him, as we’ve been double or quitsing for five years now. However, by May I will owe him nothing, I committed the heinous crime of betting against my own team. Mr Moore thinks Arsenal will win the league. If they do, I won’t mind owing him £340,000,000.