BALLSACHE’S DIARY – Mike Threlhurst tells it like it is

Saturday

After a hearty shit in ‘my office’ and a chapter of Pratchett, I donned my obligatory Briers outfit (distressed cord trousers, knitted woolly and lifeless Clark’s sandals) and ventured downstairs to breakfast with my other (and some would say better) half.

Lillian was in a foul mood. My home brew had exploded during the night, making a pig’s ear of her oil paintings, which were stashed in the garage near the Citroen. Turned radio 4 up louder in an effort to ignore her. Her paintings were shit anyway. Clowns on horses. What the fuck’s that all about?

Sorry I ever encouraged her to paint. As an art teacher, I could have destroyed them in an instant, but know it’s kept her going since Flora and Ian left home.

Slipped out after lunch to meet up with Giselle (the lovely French MA student I’m ‘tutoring’). Lillian hasn’t done it for me since November 12^th, 1987. I remember the date distinctly because it’s Edward Munch’s birthday.

Giselle waiting in one of those awful fucking Wetherspoon pubs. All Bells and Whistles but no bollocks. Beer as weak as piss. Give me the ‘Horses Hoof’ any day. Spotted by some third years. They’ll think it’s a tutorial. Well, a tutorial with my hand on her leg.

“Lillian doesn’t understand me,” I told Giselle. We kissed in Woolworth’s car park. I offered her a lift in the Volvo but she told me she was meeting up with someone else later on. Hope it’s not that long streak of piss from year two. I’ll fail the fucker if he goes anywhere near her. On the way back fantasised about me and her. ‘Come here m’dear and whisper in my ear.’

Sunday

Up betimes to work in the vegetable patch. Next door’s moggy has shat all over my radish. Lillian was putting my cords in the wash when she found the receipt from fucking Wetherspoons.

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