Lodgers, it's a lot like sharing a house with a cross between Basil Brush, Barney Gumble (of The Simpsons) and Johnny Fartpants.
Watching telly is like having Basil Brush in the room: whenever anything vaguely funny comes on (puerile humour works best) he bellows "HA, HA, HA" and pointing at the telly, shouting "look at that!" at me.
Meals are like feeding time at the zoo - I cooked Sunday dinner for the other half and I, to which I of course invited him - he belched his way through it, extremely loudly.
And then there's the farting......
At least I never get to see him in the morning: he's only ever been up once before I leave the house in the morning, even if I'm late-ish. Odd for someone who apparently never had a lie-in since the birth of his first-born. You'd have thought he would be used to getting up before 8.30ish (or maybe later, who knows). Despite the late rising he's often tired and yawns very vocally - whilst yawning he likes to go "oh-oh-oh" loudly, so that everyone else knows he's yawning. Probably all that hard work he does at the Gym, although I hear (by his own admsission) that he limits it to about 10 minutes on the cycling machine, a wee bit of rowing work and a spell on the machine near the door, you know, the one that dispenses chocolate bars and cans of coke.
I also get moments of respite when the police are after him, trying to persuade him that harassing his ex wife is a bad idea. That usually buys me 30 minutes of peace whilst he mulls over the implications and/or how to annoy her again. I think the last barrage he launched on her was when he discovered that Junior had not passed the 11 plus with anywhere like enough points to go to Pates, the Ex's preferred choice, or even Tommy Riches, his choice. Crypt looks possible but he cannot work out how the blighter would get there, (although one of our mutual friend's boy who lives very nearby seemed to manage). I suggested they got him a bicycle but he pooh-poohed that, preferring the nuclear option of demanding a recount. It got quite tense on Sunday when he learned that another mutual friend's kid had cruised in with a much better score. The phrase 'clutching at straws' springs to mind when you hear him say "Junior did say that he hadn't pressed very hard with his pencil when marking the
multiple choice boxes in the exams. Perhaps the computer that marks the cards was unable to read his the wimpy marks" (actually 'wimpy' was my choice of adjective, but you know what I mean).
Last Thursday evening we went out in Cheltenham: it was weird. Lodge likes to point at almost everything, including any woman he finds attractive. With his arm fully outstretched and making loud pronouncements like "She's got a fit arse" I was surprised that we didn't any more headway into the female population of the town than we did.
On Saturday we watched the rugby on the telly. I don't need to expand I'm sure, but there was a hell of a lot of arm waving and expression of opinion about Irish Francophile referees. Then (sucker for punishment that I am) we watched the rugby at Kingsholm. Fortunately I was in our Companies' box and he wasn't, although he met up with us after the game for beer in the Shogun bar then in the pub across the road. I let him talk to my boss (the host in our box) and very nearly got sacked on Monday morning. We left there at maybe 7.30pm for the pub near home and after a few more bevies we got a Chinese take- away and a bus back to Chez Moi at about 10.30pm. Lodge was p1ssed as a newt and boucing off walls on the walk down my street! I managed to get the monosodium glutomate and the occasional Spare Rib off the carpet around his chair on Sunday morning before the Aus/AB's match. By half-time I was beginning to wonder what had become of him when suddenly he charged downstairs and out of the front door with barely a by-your-leave, muttering something about picking up the bin lids - grist to the mill no-doubt for the presumable forthcoming battle over access to the little beggars with the Ex-wife.
Last night we watched Doc Martin together and he pointed out that I remind him of Doc Martin. It's a comparison I cannot deny carries some weight, but I at least have the manners not to point out to him that he reminds of something off Countryfile, Farming Today or Gorillas in the Mist.
That aside, it's lovely to have company and I know I'm a miserable git for having one or two reservations.
The much-put-upon Claude
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