Good Day Sunshine

How was your Saturday?? Saturday, 12th November 2011.
Mine? Well, I woke up, got out of bed and the carpet felt, well, just that little bit softer on my feet, the towels in the bathroom smelt like a cuddly Lenor advert, the bacon butties tasted so good I wouldn't have cared if Jamie Oliver had been round my gaffe and accepted sexual favours from Carey in return for horsing my frying pan and by 11.30, my good lady was telling me I was brighter than Mary feckin' Poppins in the morning.
Funny the difference a bit of good news brings isn't it?
The Euro's in meltdown, unemployment's on the rise and that Celebrity Jungle pish is back on the 50" 3D job but..but...I'm back in the team!
Mac called me up on Friday night. Okay, it had taken him nearly a week since the 9-0 humping to do so which I thought was a bit of a liberty but the ol' bastar' called me anyway to say that I was in goal for the home game the next day.
Fuckin' right I was. I mean, how slapped would my 42 year-old coupon have been if he'd decided to stick with Spraggsy after last week??
I feel a bit for Spraggsy but, you know, he must have been like John Lennon all week...having #9 Dream every time he shut his eyes. That sounded better in my head than it looks on paper but I never said I was Jack fuckin' Dee, did I?
Anyway, Saturday was  (Just Like) Starting Over  ( see above)  for the Cat.
Christ, it felt good to be...to be...to be...preparing for a game again.
Polishing me boots, spraying vinegar over me gloves ( picked that trick up from John Burridge, ex-Villa etc), and not least of all, clearing me bowels before leaving the house. John Wayne never considered a day started unless he'd crapped so you know, for better, for worse.
Got up to the ground an hour before kick-off and met Spraggsy getting out of his car. You couldn't make it up. Had Mac told him I wondered? The cheesy grin and the hearty slap on the back I got soon told me...he fuckin' knew I was in and he was out but he wasn't going to let me see it was hurting.
That's Rule No. 1 in our code by the way. Mainly cos every 'keeper goes through it during their career. You gotta have the balls of Zeus and the poker face of Studs Lonegan to be the last line of defence.
All the lads were in the dressing room when I got there. A few of them grinned at me and some even punched me on the shoulder which I thought was a bit off as Spraggsy had followed me in. I tell you what, he's a fuckin' cool one that Spraggsy. Just sat there getting changed going through his "routine", cracked knuckles, arm stretching and deep breathing before stroking his knob 6 times! I'm not fuckin' making that up btw! He looked as relaxed as Harry Redknapp's tax returns.
There was that wee moment when Mac come in to announce the team. You know that blip when you think it's all been some fuckin' wind-up that the lads are all in on and he's going to say Spraggsy's name instead of mine but it passed and that was us, ready to go.
The Beavers are a good side. Stupid feckin' nickname right enough, but a decent mid-table lot so I knew I wouldn't be standing about checking my lottery numbers over the 90 minutes.
Carey would say it went like that Celeb Jungle shit. The first hour was pish but it starts to heat up when the contestants  get a bit anxious in the last 30 minutes and nerves start to fray.
I'd like to tell you I had a blinder. That news had reached greasy Fabio and that he wanted me in the England set-up but haven't you learned fucking anything??
I told you way back at the start of these blogs. This isn't some Hollywood pish with leading men, half-hour heroics and last-minute dramas. Escape To Victory! A Shot At Glory! Harry Potter and the Cup of Carling! It's football at the wrong end of the scale. Blood, sweat and snotters as Mac's always saying so you shouldn't be surprised that...
( to be continued)