One does not set out to be a complete nob head, one just is a complete nob head. It’s a natural state of being. The situation itself, in which one is a nob head, is largely irrelevant. The seasoned, season-card-holder of all things nobacious, can generally do his or her thang, regardless of the seemingly banal nature of the occasion. Case in point…….
A gentleman tasked with the first lawn mowing of the season, could always, were he correctly mentally attuned, find himself stood three days later in the middle of a 40-square metre mud patch, after digging up his entire garden lawn.
This, despite being repeatedly assured by his wife, that doing so would make him a complete nob head, because digging up his garden lawn would be highly unnecessary and insanely over-the-top.
And yet here we are / were / is / am.
I am a nob head
I can’t help it, honest I can’t! I am only mentally capable of wanting to do things properly. Note: wanting to do things properly. I make this distinction, because whilst possessed with the maniacal desire to want to do things properly, I am alas not possessed with the skill-set to make them properly so.
Which is a giant pisser I can tell you!
I’m like a horny pensioner at a knocking-shop on 50% off day; frantically hoicking down his Austin Reed braces, only to remember that he’s left his Viagra at home on the mantelpiece. I have perfectionism impotence.
I just wanted the lawn to be lovely. I really did. A lovely, inviting emerald green blanket for my children to frolic on; and be children on – far, far away from the house. And me.
In fairness, I’m not even sure that you could call what we had a lawn? It would, in my opinion, be better described as a viciously and unnecessarily undulating mossy bastard.
So I dug the bugger up. Eventually.
A nobhead thinks
It all started with a lump. Now don’t misunderstand – this lump was a total a-hole. Every time I would mow the lawn, this lump would make it its business to transform my £130 Flymo into the Sweeney Todd of horticulture; scalping my lawn’s pate and rendering it a slap-headed, muddy baldy coot. Every frickin’ time.
No matter which ways I hovered from. Whether upward or downward; backwards or forth; with rapidity or hindrance, this lump would raise its bulgy humpity, and I wouldn’t so much cut the grass, as batter it to death and dump its lifeless body in a green wheelie bin with its tights wrapped around its neck. For seven long years, I have loathed this cantankerous lump. So I decided to be a man and cut it out.
My plan was thus: make a 6-inch incision, deftly remove a square foot of grass, scoop out the innards to render the lump moot (an ex-lump) and then pop the grass back on, like an ill-fitting toupee. Et Voila! Something for the weekend sir?
But then a foot, became two….. as you do.
And then an overly mossy patch over yonder took my fancy – so I dug it up……fair dinkum.
Then a weedy patch, that wasn’t really worth not digging up, got dug up…..
Then a stoney barrow…. then a soggy dip……… a lifeless dune……and so it went on….
A nob head doesn’t only think twice
Before I knew it, I had dug more up than was left down. One square foot of innocent tweaking had become 40 square meters of major groundworks and thus my reign as Lord of the nob heads was re-confirmed. I took a moment to ponder my actions, as I stood there in a hectare of freshly dug-up-mud. I replayed them back in my head, to see if they sounded sensible in the cold light of day:
I was unhappy with the lawn, so I made it go stand in the corner.
I was now forlornly stood where the lawn once was….the lawn was over on the patio, sunning itself. Dammit, Janet!
A nob head looks back
Four weeks on, and the big pile of lawn is still standing sullenly on the patio. Thirty days ago, I fastidiously placed ten thousand pieces of carefully dug up lawny-hump in neat piles on to my patio, to facilitate a smooth and orderly transition to the recycling centre, in the back of my people carrier.
Sadly on closer inspection yesterday, due to all of the heavy rain, it appears my fastidiousness was completely in vain, as all my dug-out lawn squarettes have melded together into one huge cocking grassy mound. I have literally created a grassy knoll on my back patio, ripe for my wife to go assassinating.
You can see it from the kitchen window. It blocks out the daylight. Were you to come visit our house, you would assume I was either having a Close Encounter mashed potato kind of moment and was going all Dreyfussy on your ass; or there had been some sort of seismic shifting of the tectonic plates in the West Midlands, resulting in a gigantic grassy volcano erupting from beneath my garden patio. I gather you can see it on Google Earth. I am expecting a telegram from Tim Peake any moment now….
A tortured nob head
To add insult to injury, the cat now has a temporary 40-square metre litter tray and knows it thusly. As I stand atop of Mount Nobheadaminjaro, he looks up at me with a mixture of disdain and insolence and deposits his filthy contempt in a little-clawed poo-piles. I suspect by the time I manage to re-turf the lawn, I shall do so on a sea of digested kitty-bottom-tuna chunks.
And finally, to top it all off like a cherry on a nightmare parfait, Patio Mountain has become terribly infested with red ants and requires gallons and gallons of boiling water to save the house from worker-invasion; sending rivers of steaming hot-soily water, cascading in tiny tributaries up to the threshold of my back door. We are an island.
I am an i-i-i-i-sland.
So all that is left to do now is: kill the ants; kill the cat; not make like Mohammed and move a mountain; buy more turf; and finally – lay the turf down, where I dug up all the other soddin’ turf from.
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