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When the Goat comes in
My wife has no concept of time. I overheard her on the phone to her mother claiming that we make love once every seven days. Her exact words were: “He does it weekly.”
Her mathematical skills are also sub-par; she tried to make out that i’ve only wandered through her unkempt garden on 21 occasions. She told her mother she was dreading our twenty-second romp.
To be fair, the spark has gone out of our relationship. There was once a time when she would allow me access to her Robbie Savage on a semi-regular basis, but now I see less action than a frigid panda.
Her reluctance to share the bedroom pie has really got my goat up. It’s not all bad news though, the goat is better in bed.
Betty’s recent apathy to all things boudoir came as a genuine surprise. When she was younger, she was shot over more than the Sri Lankan cricket team bus.
I remember the first time we were intimate, she left me a small note to show her gratitude. I say a note; it was actually a prescription for penicillin.
In a simple yet breathtakingly brilliant counter-manoeuvre, I’ve turned the tables by giving up lovemaking for Lent. Obviously this will hit the wife hard, but it’s a stroke of good fortune for the goat.
There are some women who could potentially tempt me out of my vow of abstinence, but Lily Allen is not among this fortunate group. The promiscuous singer had the barefaced cheek to criticise former partners for being inadequate in the bedroom. I’m sure they would have mustered more enthusiasm if she didn’t look like a fat boy.
I’m not the only one who has made a sacrifice for Lent; Tony Mowbray has given up his beloved Kit Kats. Ashley Cole was going to follow suit, but he couldn’t face forty days without his chocolate fingers.
Sol Campbell should take this opportunity to give up being such a big mincer. Campbell now wants the authorities to deduct points from clubs whose fans are responsible for indecent chanting. Sol should just man-up and take the abuse on the chin, although that area is already densely populated.
Roque Santa Cruz has a genuine reason for complaint, the Blackburn striker was ridiculed last week for wearing a shirt with ‘Satna Cruz’ printed on the back. How stupid do you have to be to spell ‘Santa’ wrong, the kitman is obviously a thick cutn.
I must apologise if I appear overly severe in my critique this week; it’s probably a result of my three-point loss on Manchester United in the Carling Cup final. It wasn’t losing the money that upset me, but the sight of Carlton Palmer in my bath shortly afterwards.
It could have been worse though, it could have been Patsy Palmer. I’d hate to break my no-pie pledge on a rancid ginger.
I’m going to forget my troubles by staking one point on Arsenal to beat Burnley by two or more goals at 6/4. I think this is a great bet, and I’m putting my money where my mouth is - pleasuring a reluctant goat.
