Myself & Ball: A Woeful Weekend With Ball

A Woeful Weekend With Ball

Ball, my friend and housemate is in mourning today after a miserable weekend that saw the team he follows crash out of the FA Cup. Ball takes these things very seriously, sometimes too seriously, although football is great you need to step-back and think ‘it is just a game’. Ball cannot do this. To Ball football is life, apart from the other things he enjoys.

My weekend with Ball started well, we had a breakfast of scrambled eggs on toast. Ball makes a mean helping of scrambled egg, it’s been known to stop the most experienced ‘eaters’ in their tracks. He took it easy today though, probably due to the fact that we had few eggs, only just enough for the two of us. Ball cooks his scrambled egg in the microwave, the cheap and easy method, nonetheless it was delicious. Ball had a sprinkling of pepper on his egg and splodge of ketchup on the side of his plate. Ball favours Daddies tomato ketchup, but he’ll usually take whatever is on offer. After our treat we watched some television. Ball’s television is small but effective, he is the master of finding a reception with our elongated aerial. Holly Willoughby, the ITV children’s presenter raised more than just Ball’s eyebrows, yet I felt the rubbing of his crotch area was somewhat inappropriate for a Saturday morning, I turned a blind eye.

Around 12.30pm we ventured down the road to a pub, the Penny Whistle. According to Ball this pub is named the Penny Whistle due to a posse of right-wing Northampton residents marching through the streets blowing their penny whistles as a sign of disgust in protest at the arrival of a large black community within the town. Knowing Ball as I do, I know this is more than likely codswallop, he’s an adept bull-shitter yet his stories are rarely believable. Ball, uncharacteristically, bought the first round of drinks. Cheap pints for the pair of us. We sat and took in the FA Cup game between Cheltenham Town and Newcastle United. We both supported Cheltenham in this game and were disheartened to see Newcastle win the match 2-0, thanks to “Scott Parker’s bollocks ruining it for everyone”, as Ball eloquently put it after Newcastle went 2-0 in front thanks to a ricochet of their midfielder Parker.

We spent the afternoon drinking more pints whilst watching the incoming FA Cup results on Sky Sports. Ball was particularly interested in the Everton v Chelsea game, hating Chelsea as he does. He was unfortunately disappointed when “Fat Lampard” scored an equaliser to earn Chelsea a draw. At full-time, it wasn’t long before the big-game, Ball’s Arsenal away to Bolton Wanderers. Ball was unusually cautious of his prediction that Arsenal would win. The Gunners, as Arsenal are called, have not fared well at the Reebok Stadium, home of Bolton, in recent times. Nonetheless Ball was confident “Thierry and the boys will do it”. Thierry [Henry] was not starting. Arsenal lost the game. Ball was not pleased at all. However, after the general post-defeat malaise Ball experiences he declared he was ready to venture out to “get shit-faced”. Ball likes to do this, however it usually ends badly. Saturday was to be one of those nights.

We went home and had our tea. On the menu was a Ball Special. Ball specials usually occur when we have very little food, Saturday was one of those days. With pasta, three sausages, a jar of tomato sauce and oregano, Ball somehow managed to rustle up a tasty treat for us. We then sat in relative silence sinking a few canned lagers. Ball’s preferred beer from a can is Carling. Carling is a British lager and used to be called Carling Black Label, the name changed did not see a change in taste, either way, Ball likes it.

Our evening adventure would lead us to the student union, it was school uniform night. “School uniform is for dick heads” Ball said as we arrived and saw the sign on the door. We headed straight to the bar and pursued our mission of drinking the bar dry, obviously with the help of a few hundred fellow students, some clad in school uniform. Whilst I chatted with a host of young ladies Ball was on a seemingly mad rampage, he is known as ‘Destruction Ball’ for his explosive antics in the past. He spent time with some of our mutual friends, they seemed amused by his japes, but I knew it would end in disaster. I left the student union without Ball. He’d long since vanished, to where, who knows. I returned home, still no sign of Ball, after calling his name a few times I decided in my drunken state it would be best to go to bed and worry about Ball in the morning.

The next morning there was no sign of Ball, I needed to urinate most urgently; there was someone in the bathroom, showering, so I had to venture to our outside latrine. In slippers, shorts and the very same shirt I wore last night I crept downstairs. The living room had a stench I was used to, like a wet dog that has been playing in mud. It was also a big mess, beer cans and kebab everywhere. Just looking at the kebab I knew I hadn’t eaten it, I had recollection of an undercooked cheese burger. Then to my concern I noticed the back door was ajar. Was this something to do with Ball? Probably, I thought. As I pulled the door open, to my horror, I spotted the result of Ball’s antics from the night before. The doorstep, rubbish bags outside and even our mop and bucket were covered in what looked like a stale chocolate milkshake, I knew otherwise. Ball was at it again, pooing without care for others, I manoeuvred outside, avoiding the splattered faeces, had my wee and returned to bed. Ball was not to be seen for the rest of that day.