Why is important to never say no to a fish finger sandwich? I’ll bloody well tell you.
Yesterday (Sunday) was my birthday. On Saturday, my dear missus asked me what I wanted for my birthday tea. (Historical information – The first year we were together, she asked me the same question, and straight out, half joking, half serious, I said sausage, beans and chips, for twas my favourite meal as a kid. So we had it, then we had it every year after. Sadly, a couple of years ago baked beans started giving me indigestion, so we’ve moved away from this to other childhood favourites).
Without thinking, I said I wanted fish finger sandwiches. I really did too. I love fish finger sandwiches, and now “posh” places are charging £8 a pop for them making out they’re posh, robbing bastards. Piss off London, it’s nothing posh, it’s a Northern kids delight, and you shove your twice fried chips up your hoop too.
Where was I? Yes, fish finger sandwiches. However, as my daughter and her boyfriend were coming round, and my mum, my wife said she would struggle to cook sufficient fish fingers and ONCE cooked chips in the oven (Historical information – The bottom part of our cooker stopped working over Christmas so we’ve ordered a new one, but of course I have to book a fucking day off work to wait for someone to fit it because large companies simply can’t give you a time more accurate than 8 hours to do fucking anything), so she suggested we had Mexican. I like Mexican food, it’s nice, so I agreed.
Saturday afternoon, and we had to pop into Bradford to pick up a birthday present for our youngest whose birthday is in a couple of weeks. On the way back, I suggested we pop into Asda to get the things for the Mexican. My wife said no, the little one was asleep and she didn’t want to get her out as she needed a rest, but we then decided it would get it out of the way, you know now it is. We drove into Asda car park, and it was rammed. It was raining, and I said supermarket mince is pretty crap anyway so shall we toddle into town to go to the local butcher. We both thought this was a good idea.
We parked into town, and my wife stayed in the car while I went for the mince. As it was 3.30pm and so very close to 4.30 when they shut (!) they had put all the meat back in the cellar, so I waited while they buggered off to fetch some. They weighed it and only had half what I needed but I took it anyway wishing I’d just gone to bloody Asda because I was going to have to go now anyway.
Walking back to the car, I saw my wife was out of the car and chatting to a bloke at the side of it. Perhaps an old acquaintance. No, he was a chap from the adjacent shop, who had come to assist after the Christmas lights which were twinkling beautifully suspended over the street, had come crashing down onto our car, a couple of them having a nice little explosion as they did so.
The chap had helped drag them from under the car where they had nicely slid as we were parked on a hill. I thanked the chap, and proceeded to ring the council, as there was 30 feet of flashing lights hanging onto the pavement with a live exposed cable making a nifty Tarzan swing for any young teenagers passing by.
The council didn’t answer. So we rang the police. As a nice citizen I thought the wire was potentially dangerous and I offered to wait with it. The police said that would be good, and it would be an hour at the most to get someone there. “AN HOUR” I exclaimed, but he said that it would be that at the most.
The kids were kicking off in the car, they were bored. We gave the youngest her birthday present to shut her up. Our five year old came to stand with me and found it exciting, asking every sixty seconds what time the police were coming.
It started raining. Rain and electric don’t mix well. I pushed the cable up to the wall as close as I could. I was bursting for a piss. There was one round the corner, so my wife stood with the cable while I went for a wee. I opened the door and saw a man doing something that didn’t look all together right, so I left, still full of wee.
I got back to the car and my phone started ringing, but it diverted to Bluetooth in the car and I couldn’t answer on my phone. I gesticulated to my wife to answer it, who was sat in the passenger seat with the baby on her knee trying to entertain her. She fumbled across for the button to answer but it went off just as she pressed it. I wanted to Basil Fawlty branch twat something. I was distracted by my phone buzzing again, it was a text from the police saying the council were on their way and ending “you cannot respond by text to this number”.
WHEN WERE THE COUNCIL COMING? I was cold and wet and my teeth were swimming in piss.
I rang them back, and enjoyed being on hold for 15 minutes, before a woman said the council would try ring me when they find out which electrician is coming and what time he would be there.
Luckily, precisely an hour after the first call, a smiley man turned up, said he would sort it, and gave me a cuddle.
I was freezing, soaked, had most likely now got a bladder infection, and I needed to buy another birthday present for our youngest.
So the moral of the story is this; if your partner suggests fish finger sandwiches for tea, you fucking well have them.