Men Together Today

Dr. B. Michael Jackson, MD

In case you have been on the moon, the King of Pop is dead! No not H from Steps, but Michael Jackson! Insert grief here. Facebook statuses are fluttering, twitter couldn't handle the strain and tabloids who loved to ridicule him are now dedicating half their paper to him. Even though I'm not a Michael Jackson fan I couldn't help shocked and felt the need to tell someone. I couldn't allow this serious media outlet to pass without commenting, after all as I type Tim 'Nicey McNice' Henman and Sue 'Apple of Ally McCoist's Eye' Barker have stopped talking about how have many centuries have passed without a Brit winning Wimbledon to talk about him; I didn't think Armageddon could stop that.

Tennis is actually taking up a lot of my life. Unemployment is becoming a real drag, finding part time work is also a pain, being messed around by a golf club is probably a new low for me. Thus there is plenty of time for tennis. I have warmed to the game after years of apathy to a game that I thought was essentially grunting, strawberries and whimpering feebly 'come on Tim' as you witnessed the expectations of a nation crush a man. I have picked players to support which always helps. Djokovic the crazy Serb as he appeared in my dissertation and Murray mainly to annoy my Dad, who hates him. My Dad hates a lot of sports people (the entire premier league and most of the championship, the Williams sisters, Ricky Ponting, Paula Radcliffe, to name a few) but Andy Murray does invoke more than most. It stems from a comment Murray made about not supporting the England football team. Its fair enough as he is Scottish and Scotland have their own team, but Dad treats him as if he burnt the St Georges Cross while dancing on the Queen Mothers grave and singing Nazi war anthems. It fills the days until real sport starts again the form of the eternal struggle that is the Ashes. Wimbledon and the Ashes, I don't think I can handle the disappointment.

Other than that things continue as normal. There was a reet good trip down t'yorkshire. As you can see, impersonating isn't one of my strongest suits and strangely I was more aware of sounding different in Leeds than I was in Romania. It was in all in the name of Patrick's birthday. I think he had fun, he spent most of it in charge of a bbq. Within a few hours I had managed to kick his football in a beautiful curving ark over a fence. It was like Kevin Lisbie, I panicked when the ball actually came to me.

Other than that people have appeared briefly. John is back home as a warning to what my hair will look like in the not too distant future. Matt returned from Wales which was great other than Transformers 2, Brave Heart the space robot can piss off back where he came from. Cat was back to feed her itbox addiction. I helped put up a marque for a fete which should have been fun. The whole process is insert, screw, slot, jiggle, there was plenty of chances to giggle like a primary school child but the presence of a priest put pay to that.

My Spanish is improving but thats not much of a claim. The CD continues to be strange, the guy now brags about drinking 8 beers in five minutes and when the woman reacts in horror his only justification is that he likes beer. The woman's vice however is cold sandwiches, she can't get enough of them. It does make me respect how well Senor Bloomfield, a fellow CELTA-rite has managed to pick up the lingo.

Sorry about the quality of these recent posts, but stick with it Spain isn't far and hopefully then can write something about a more interesting place than New Ash Green. love love love x