So we're at gym and the first salvos of World War 3 have been launched.
(Incase you've been living under a rock since it's the thing that everyone is talking about, basically we have had to declare a third global conflict at our gym. You can read about it here.)
Like so many before us, this conflict was not started at a time of our choosing and we were dragged into it unprovoked but it will end once we have prevailed.
And our important Three Point Plan For War™ has been instigated, specifically points 1, 4 and 9.
Point one was for Brent - the reception manager - to get the details of ... er, hold on.
Firstly we need to clarify the name of the enemy because we can't keep referring to him as the fugly thug who wears hideous gold shoes.
So, for the task of clarification we have enlisted the help of Christopher* who will lead the intelligence cavalry.
* = our personal trainer, do pay attention at the back please.
"Christopher, what do you know of that fucking tosspot over there with the ridiculously silly gold shoes?"
"I beg your pardon?"
Yes. This guy calls himself Beckham. What a complete and utter - I mean, doesn't it just so fit? He thinks he's David Beckham.
And can I stress again... this guy is your typical thuggish oaf from Eastern Europe with a hairy neck and the prejudices of Idi Amin.
And to think that he calls himself Beckham. It just shows that he is about as deluded as the former president of Uganda and sometime King of Scotland. (Get us and our history...)
What Christopher is also able to tell us is that Beckham works - and I am being serious. He really does call himself Beckham and it is true that he works as a bouncer at a
So I have Googled "[name of club]" and "bouncer" and the following phrases pop up:
"door staff and bouncers were all ASSHOLES"
"The bouncers outside seem to all be on some sort of power trip"
"horrible old fashioned sexist bouncers"...
And so the results continue ad nauseam for 28,000 times...
So I think that on point one, we are clearly ahead. The propaganda victory is ours. Clearly everyone in the capital also hates Beckham.
(Ohmygod, every time I say his ridiculous name, I get a little snot in my nose from a mini-laugh.)
So the next point - is this point 2? Anyway, it's PSYOPS, one of the most important aspects of conflict.
Wikipedia drones on endlessly about psychological operations in war - and you may know what they are but if you don't, PSYOPS basically involves fucking with the enemy's mind.
We have the tactics.
Basically whenever Beckham comes near Liam or I, we both make vomit noises.
Adult issues deserve a mature response.
Oh yeah, and when he wanders off to drink water from the fountain or stare at his silly fucking gold shoes in the mirror somewhere, we discreetly pack his weights back on the rack.
So the first day of war has definitely not been like the troops on Christmas Day climbing over the top and playing football in no-man's land.
Fighting has been hard and fierce. Shock and awe. We'll smoke Saddam and his henchmen out of their holes. (Er, I think we're getting our wars mixed up a little...)
Liam and I are able to take some time with Brent to debrief about the battle so far.
Remember it was Brent, the front of house manager, who was going to find out Beckham's (chortle / puke) real name so that we could attack his house with a tank and get his gym membership torn up.
But Brent has had to deal with the fact that apparently the creche manager and the pilates teacher were caught having sex in the pool after hours. This is true fucking shit, man...
Er, excuse me but how are we supposed to be beating the enemy when our lieutenants are having to deal with members of their squadron having casual sex while on duty?
Oh yeah - and another bit of gossip for you (dinkum shit, baby...)
Apparently Steve, the maintenance guy, was again caught bashing one out to Loose Women on TV in an empty staff common room.
War is hell.