I'm still recovering from the havoc wreaked by Hurricane Wayne. Not that this hurricane had anything to do with the weather. I had my cousin, Wayne, here for five days. He arrived with a massive suitcase and a big holdall - for a five day visit. No sooner had he ensconced himself in my humble abode, than the trail of destruction began. Rugs were kicked up, the throws on the furniture ended up on the floor, a massive pile of newspapers and magazines suddenly appeared, strewn everywhere, my kitchen looked like a bomb had hit it, and half my crockery and cutlery had been used.
Within minutes of his arrival, he'd commandeered the remote control for the digital cable box. I rarely watch TV, and when I do, I watch documentaries and other factual, intelligent shows. Wayne likes drama, musicals and trash. As soon as the TV is on, he sits in front of it, mesmerized, like a baby seeing its first ever TV show. Wayne doesn't have cable or satellite TV, just the five regular terrestrial channels. So my 200 plus channels are a real treat for him. So, with all that choice, why, oh why must he insist on watching Dog the Bounty Hunter? I'm sure Dog the convicted murderer and his family are very nice people, notwithstanding their pumped up muscles, pneumatic breasts and dodgy haircuts, but the show does nothing for me. But I'll let you in on a little secret. Cousin Wayne is besotted with one of Dog's sons - the one with the wife and four kids. Oh, how I enjoyed telling cousin Wayne about Duane Lee's wife and four kids.
My evil cat, Leo, had enough of Wayne's snoring and farting after a couple of days, and began to stalk him. The little bugger tried to launch numerous attacks on Wayne, but I managed to ward him off. Maybe I'll just let him attack the next time, as revenge for being made to suffer eight episodes of Dog the Bounty Hunter, back-to-back, on Sunday.
It's not surprising that Wayne farts so much. He eats more food in a day than I do in a week. He munched his way through three large loaves of bread in those five days, countless cakes, biscuits, chocolate bars, roast dinners, pots of coleslaw, three large helpings of Sunday lunch, and goodness knows what else. He dragged me into a greasy spoon cafe one day, and ordered chips (that's french fries, to you Americans), a huge rissole and some baked beans. It arrived on a large, oval plate. He wolfed it all down and then declared, 'ooh, I'm really hungry now', before ordering another huge plateful of chips (fries). His excuse? It was 3 PM and he'd only had 'a bit of toast' all day. He didn't wake up until gone 11 AM, and his 'bit of toast' was more like six slices. A few hours later, he wolfed down a huge roast pork dinner. The day he left, he had another six or so slices of toast, before dragging me into a local pub for a huge cooked breakfast, which was so cholesterol-laden and greasy, it made me ill and unable to eat for 36 hours.
On the Tuesday, we were due to head to Cardiff for a day out. As usual, I was up ages before Wayne, and sat in the kitchen, with my laptop on the kitchen table, blasting out Metallica. In waltzed Wayne, playing air guitar and making silly comments about my obscure tastes in music -'indulging your tendency to listen to stuff no-one else knows'. 'Er, hello? This is not obscure, this is Metallica', I said. He looked at me with a totally blank expression. 'Y'know', I said, 'Metallica? The world's best known, best-selling, mega-huge rock band?' 'So how come no-one else has heard of them?' asks Wayne. I almost choked on my cappuccino. 'What do you mean, no-one else has heard of them? Come on, even you must have heard of them'. 'No, and nobody I know has either. I have NEVER seen a single one of their albums in anyone's music collection, and I'm always looking at people's music collections'. 'Wayne, they have sold more than 90 million albums worldwide, they have won seven Grammy awards, and are generally considered the most commercially successful metal band ever, and have had hits in the mainstream charts. Then again, they've never recorded with Liza Minnelli or Barbra Streisand, or starred in a West End musical, so I dare say you or your friends won't have heard of them!'
Anyway, Hurricane Wayne has blown his way out of Swansea - quote literally, with all the farting he does. I spent half a morning rounding up all his newspapers and magazines, which filled a whole recycling sack, before straightening rugs and replacing throws. The cats and I are slowly recovering from the shock of being invaded by a messy, loud, eating, snoring, farting machine, who can fall asleep anywhere, any time, just like a toddler. In fact, I'm convinced Wayne is just a giant, hairy toddler. Now that the Honey Monster has gone home, I should be back to regular blogging at the start of the week. I also have some new pics to post. See you soon!
