My kind of marathon

Thanks to the magic of youhootube or whatever it’s called, I’ve spent about nine solid hours this weekend slumped on a sofa binging on ‘Black Books’. Marathon sessions of any programme are when you find out if they are really good; does the programme have the ability to silence that part of your brain that is telling you that you are Wasting Your Weekend, that you should Be Doing Something, even if it’s just opening the curtains, showering or getting out of your dressing gown.

Luckily, the part of my brain – the ‘perky section’ – that tells the rest of me that it should go for a walk and enjoy the majesty of the turning leaves and the brisk Autumn air has a hard enough time fighting my internal sloth without having to put up with external influences.

So sofa it was. I have to admit that things got a little tricky about a third of the way in, when my hangover abated long enough for me to realise I was hungry, but by putting together a running buffet on a plate, I was able to bring by starch, salt and fat levels up to optimum. I was then able to spend the next two hours fighting nausea but at least fighting nausea on a full stomach.

So it’s dark now and too late to Do Anything. Well, not quite dark, fireworks light the night all colours and bangs and pops make the place sound like downtown Bagdad on any night of the week. The air is no longer fresh but has the fresh tang of borderline legal Chinese gunpowder. Opening the curtains does reveal rockets and other skybourne fireworks, but also makes you wonder what you’re missing as you watch back gardens light up with what you hope is an impressive firework rather than, you know, somebody getting pissed and throwing paint thinner on the barbeque.

Tomorrow night is bonfire night, best enjoyed with a mug of soup stirred by a sausage – with a sparkler stuck in it. It’s also the first year when I think I shall try launching my rockets Pakistani style – in a BBC report recently celebrating Parkistani men (it’s always bloody men isn’t it) were seen gripping the stalks of rockets and then lighting them. Jesus, what savagery…can these third world idiots not afford a decent pair of gardening gloves – I bet not one of them even owns a decent set of pruning shears.