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Well I’ve had another fairly busy weekend, I wont bore you to death reiterating the ins and out of everything that I did this weekend, so here are just a few of the more noteworthy activities.

Friday Eve: It was another of my friend’s birthday, so we all went out as a big girly group (there were two men there, who were honorary girls, but that’s just cuz they were gay) into Leeds city centre.
I got quite drunk (four Budweisers and a Malibu and coke and that was me done) and I was also propositioned by a lesbian (when we were dancing, I assumed that she was just a really friendly girl) whom I didn’t know was a lesbian, until it became obvious that she was looking at me as a potential shag for the night. Nice.

Saturday: Woke up with a hangover which hubby insisted on making worse (he was jealous cuz I’d gone out and he hadn’t) He persisted in trying to make my head hurt more by playing Lynard Skynard’s Sweet Home Alabama very loudly (train-spotter) until I screeched at him, whereby he promptly took off to our local leisure club, to escape my wrath.

Saturday Afternoon: We all went to the pub to watch the FA Cup final on the big screen, we were all Manu Supporters apart from one Rear Gunner, who obviously felt a bit intimidated (so he should have).

We then spent the next 120 minutes on the edge of our seat whilst Man United played the Gunners off the park, but in the end lost the cup to a Paul Scholes penalty miss. Cue lots of blubbing and screaming, and a sly self-satisfied smirk from the only one of us who wasn’t a Reds supporter. I took the high road, and ignored him for the rest of the afternoon, and tried to drown my sorrows with alcohol-free beer.

Saturday Eve: The Eurovision Song Contest was on TV. This Has got to be the worst singing contest in the history of singing contests, but in this country, it’s always worth watching, just to hear Terry Wogan’s sarcastic and bitchy comments about the contestants from the rest of Europe. United Kingdom, France, Germany, and another major European country came last. Greece won the entire contest as per the bookies predictions.

The way the contest works (for my American Amigo’s) is that each European country selects a singer or a band to represent them in the finals. On the night, each nation then cast votes on who they like best.

To cut a long story short, what generally happens, is that instead of voting for who was the best, all the voting countries award points to their neighbours (e.g. Greece awards maximum points to Cyprus, and vice versa, all the Baltic countries stick together, Andorra awards maximum points to Spain, and they in return do the same) Nobody ever votes for United Kingdom these days due to the fact, we’re such a force in world politics, and also because of our involvement in the Iraq War. It’s all very political, and completely farcical, and I’m not sure why it continues, but from a British point of view, I do think most people tune in just to hear Terry’s witty repartee.

Sunday Morning: Went to visit a friend of mine who is almost like a surrogate Grandmother. This lady is called Flora, she is 92, but she totally looks fantastic for her age.

When I got to her apartment, I noticed she didn’t look as cheery as she normally does, and so I asked her what the problem was. She seemed reluctant to tell me, so I jokingly asked if she was having men trouble (her husband had died 20 years earlier) she looked at me, and nodded her head.

Hopefully I didn’t look as amazed as I felt (who knew that people over 80 still had boyfriend issues?) and encouraged her to tell me the tale.

Basically she’d been dating this gentleman who was twenty years younger than her (still trying to pick my jaw off the ground at this point). This guy and her had been dating for ten years (she was good friends with his mother, that information alone had me reeling).

This guy, who was called Edward, was the minister of her church group where she attended regularly (Church of England no less, I tell ya those religious types, yech!) and had been calling on her for ages (apparently he did all the chasing when they first met).

Last week a couple of new ladies joined the church group, (Flora seemed to think they were there just to find men, the Jezebels), and these “mutton, dressed as lamb” (her words not mine) made a beeline straight for Edward (Floozies), and apparently last week, Aida, who’s a friend of Flora’s saw Edward with a lady (who wasn’t Flora) at a concert.

Well as you can imagine, Flora was devastated, and has been miserable all week.

Edward The Cad, usually calls on her on Sunday afternoons for tea and crumpets, but this week, he hadn’t called round, and there was no phone call or anything to explain his absence, which lead Flora to believe that he’s thrown her over for one (or both) of the new ho’s who’d made a beeline straight for him last week.

Flora told me that Aida (her best friend) had heard one of the ladies asking about Edward, apparently at that point, one of the members of the congregation had piped up and told this ho, that Edward was Flora’s and the slut had replied “well he wont be hers forever will he?” Gasp, what a brazen hussy!!

So Flora didn’t go to church as usual this morning because she felt that she couldn’t face him, and also she wanted to avoid pitying looks from all the other congregation members.

When Flora told me her tale, my initial advice to her was “Dump the bastard”, but then I had to back-track, and recall that Flora was actually 92 years old, and that things were different when she was a young woman, so I had a rethink, and came up with a much more sensible piece of advice.

I told her to stick her foot out, (the next time she was in church), and trip up the bitch (es) he’d been cavorting with. What? I thought that was sound advice.

Hopefully this is all a misunderstanding, but Flora’s tale of woe, brought it home to me that man trouble doesn’t only affect young/middle aged women, the bastards cause misery even when they’re in their dotage. Great, just what you needed to hear. Sheesh!

That completes my tales for the weekend. I’m off to see my mother in a while, to see if she’s cooked anything worth stealing. If so I’ll bring said food item back home and pretend to hubby that I’ve made it myself.