She's back...
MAN ABOUT the HOUSE by Claire Sucks, G'EB! Woman of the Year (again!)
I'm in a dilemma. And it isn't whether I should have chicken nuggets or pasta for tea. This is serious. My boyfriend, Alan, has recently bought a house on one of those new estates up Rating Lane. He's very generously given me carte blanche with the decorations. I rubbed my hands with glee as I thought of all those Saturdays, which I usually spend alone while he's at Holker St., suddenly teeming with opportunities. When there's a home game, I drop him off outside the ground and then I go to Asda to do the weekly shopping. Now I could add on to that perfectly legitimate trips to Stollers' Furniture World or even trips to IKEA at Preston or Laura Ashley in Manchester searching out settees and curtain fabrics. What heaven! What bliss! Alas, it soon became clear that there was a problem. A hidden agenda. A fly in the ointment. A pre-condition that overrode all other considerations. It was the poster. And it had to be the centrepiece of any plan I may have had for the lounge. It's not just any ordinary poster, you understand. It's a full length colour portrait of Andy 'Raging Bull' Green. It shows Barrow's no.9 in all his glory, the all conquering hero, punching the air after scoring another match winning goal. Off he runs, bedecked in blue and white, eyes aglow and bulging out of their sockets in a wild frenzy of achievement and triumph. And as it's Alan's prize possession (the poster, not Andy Green's eyes) there was no chance of losing it in the move. My suggestion that it could go under the stairs, where it would be bathed in the light of a forty watt electric light bulb, as if it were in the glow of some eternal floodlight, was met with barely suppressed rage. How could I suggest such a thing? I even said he could paint the alcove blue and white and call it Alan's Nook, a place to hide away where he could read his old programmes and fanzines, phone the Soccerline, or listen to match commentaries. But it was no good. Alan wasn't having any of it. "It will hang above the fireplace," he announced in that testosterone filled voice of his which makes me go weak all over. "And that is my last word on the matter!" What power he has. I guess that's why I love him. But I digress. I'd forgotten what it was like to have idols. I've got a poster of the Spice Girls. And one of Tom Cruise. And a glossy photo of Black Beauty. But none of them mean as much to me as this picture of Andy Green means to my Alan. So as moving-in day moves ever nearer, Andy Green's poster inches ever closer to its rightful place; above the fireplace in the lounge. I'm not sure if I want his bulging eyes and thick neck to dominate my waking hours in such a way. But until he is finally installed, there is one weapon that I haven't used yet. The ultimate threat. Non co-operation in the boudoir department, if you see what I mean. Perhaps that will do the trick. I hope so. But somehow, I doubt it. Issue 029 - January 1997