My husband has gone away to outer (Uncle) Bulgaria this week on a helmet wearing beer-idiot adventure, or as he calls it: a “snowboarding holiday”. Actual ratio of time in the bar to time on the mountains is expected to be approximately 10:0, ten also being the number of Jaegerbombs they are expected to pour into their eyes before breakfast. I imagine.
It’s a boys only trip, which gives you some idea of how much use he will be for months upon his return. It’s also an annual occurrence, assuming he remembers to bring his board back with him each time, which, amusingly one year he “forgot” to do.
It has been pointed out to me that my amazing husband is actually a rich source of comedy blog inspiration, giving us as he has Shithouse Crap Caravan-gate amongst other amusing / wildly-irritating-except-in-hindsight incidents. Like the fact I came into our office the other week to find he’d bought himself a mobility scooter; not because he is in any way mobility-impaired, but rather to dismantle it and use the bits to add reverse gear and a parking brake to our hugely overengineered, electrically powered Camp Bestival child-trolley.
We run a web design agency. Think on that.
He also casually mentioned in conversation last week that he was thinking of selling ‘that Corsa’. Which is odd. Because we don’t own a Corsa. Or so I thought. Turns out that the little red car which has been parked outside another office on our complex is also technically a ‘marital asset’ and has been since OCTOBER, when he picked it up on Gumtree for a song, or some other such bollocks. This one outdoes the caravan by some miles (literally), having as it does, actual mould on both front seats. This is living friends.
I’ve written in the past about his penchant for, seemingly at random, embarking on 90% of any given DIY job, before proclaiming that he’s probably “bitten off more than he can chew” and having a lie down in front of the Formula One – case in point most of the walls he has knocked down during the course of our never ending house extension. On the plus side, life round ours is never dull, although life round ours is very often coated in a very fine layer of brick dust.
I was reminded the other day however that I have done some fairly idiotic things in my time too. I carefully edit them all out of this blog though, so everyone thinks I’m BRILLIANT IN EVERY WAY. (I am). But once, husband asked me to transfer some money back into his bank account – his business bank account in fact. Because I’m a massive fucking dickhead, I thought it would be amusing to label this transaction:
This did not go down at all well.
Approximately 3 nanoseconds after clicking ‘yes please, send this money to your husband’s business account on which his and your entire livelihood depends’ I received a bewildered, and somewhat irritated phone call from my husband, informing me that he had just been on the phone to the fraud squad, who had, with immediate effect, frozen all his assets.
That is to say – no money goes in. No money goes out.
Not really ideal for any business.
Cue frantic apologising from me, insterspersed with disbelief that anyone would take ‘money laundering’ this seriously. “Have they no sense of humour?!?” I asked, of the biggest global banking corporation which has ever existed, so I think you can probably guess the answer to that. No-one gets that rich by making jokes, with the possible exception of Michael McIntyre and everyone at The Lad Bible.
Even once it had come to light that we weren’t running some budget Northamptonshire based mafia outfit and it was all just a misunderstanding, there was a further thirty days whilst every single facet of our entire lives was investigated before we were allowed to spend any of our own money. Which is a really long time to go without buying a load of any old shit on Ebay, I can tell you.
So watch this space for further idiocy. Turns out it’s not just the children.
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Dicking about on Twitter here
Pictures of my breakfast on Instagram here.
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