Simply put, November is the runt of all months. It heralds the start of ‘all that is shite’ for 5 months. And quite frankly, it gives me a large dollop of the blues.
First off, it just barges in after that bastard clock has gone back. No, ‘Is it alright?’, ‘May I?’ ‘Are you ready for me?’ or ‘I’ll fuck off if I’m not wanted’. Nah. November struts around with imaginary rolls of lino under its armpits and acts like its shit don’t stink. It shakes leaves off trees, bungs ice on the road and gives me cold tits. But worstest of all….the fucker gets dark early. Bastard.
It is my understanding that there are ‘others’ out there who actively ‘embrace’ the annual winterfest. I am also led to believe that said embracing (in the main), involves getting mildly wankered by a roaring fire on a nightly basis. And have it on good authority that an opened, half-read novel is an essential prop to disguise these gargling sessions.
No such larks to be had in Chateau Shite. My drum is colder than a penguin’s arse with Katie Hopkins’ goodwill blown up it. Look! Here’s me and the old man returning from our weekly shoplifting stint at Lidl. Maybe the eagle-eyed amongst you will spot that we’re not looking best pleased with the efforts of our new, Black Friday 2-bar electric heater we scored from Amazon for a mere ‘snip’…
November also rings the final death knell for bare feet.
My mate, September, is doable – I can spend most of it in my sandals.
October – (granted) getting a bit more iffy, but it can still feature some sandal-based close-range forays to pubs, shops or a wander down to the river to see the duckies PLUS there’s always my trusty Skechers. Machine washable and home to my bare tootsies on chillier days.
But November rolls in and finally fucks me over. And that’s that until that bastard clock goes back to where it belongs. The swine.
Given the opportunity (and a lager incentive) I’d find a like-minded miserable cow to wear Skechers with me, so we could walk down steps in a synchronised fashion whilst bemoaning the horrors of being a sock-botherer during winter months.
Alas, the last time I went out with bare feet in the winter, I had misspent youff on my side and inappropriately high heels that made my arse stick out.
Sigh. There’s nothing sexy about socks. And each time I put a pair on, a small part of me dies – a bit like every time I enter a Tesco…
So no small wonder that November makes me sad and has me absently scratching my belly as I dream of better times to come…
Hang on. Time out…
WHO are these fuckers? And WHAT are they being SO chirpy about?
Wassat you say? November’s pissed off? It’s now December? We’re marching towards the shortest day with balls the size of a baboon? Then we’re on the home-straight?
Well, I’ll have ten bobs worth of that!
Can it EVER be too early for a skirt swirl? I think not.
GO TOWARDS THE LIGHT! Ah. That’s better. I can feel those winter blues doing some of that ‘ebbing away’ malarkey.
Now all I have to do is keep my head down during the ‘festive period’ and before I know it, everything will be peachy once again!
HAVE A GOOD ONE! HAVE A SAFE ONE!
And I’ll see you on the other side in 2022……
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