THE Prince of Darkness ordered me to sort my staff out yesterday. I know exactly what he means.
Sitting around discussing favourite recipes, food mixers, the best use for butternut squash etc is fine. It's understandable to get in touch with your sensitive side to a certain extent, but when it comes to buying flowers for yourself that crosses a line.
Yet this is exactly what Shutts did yesterday. No excuses. Quite proud of himself. He marched into Tesco's and bought himself some lillies. "They brighten the place up," he explained.
Well, tickle my knackers with a feather duster, that's going TOO FAR.
I mean, Shutts could have come up with any excuse: "I bought them for the Mrs after a particularly big fight when she threatened to throw all my porn in the bin."
"I bought them for the Mrs as an apology for going out on the p*ss with my mates on our anniversary."
"I bought them for the Mrs to try and persuade her that I didn't really fancy all the girls that I've been texting with undying messages of love."
But none of them will wash, because Shutts's Mrs is actually on holiday with her mates in Australia. So, unequivocably, he bought them for himself.
And worse... as he tried to talk himself out of it he made himself sound even more wussy. "Well, you get double club points for them."
Double club points? What man who doesn't spend his life dressing in women's clothing and showering himself with sweet-smelling "products" talks like that? What will he be doing next? Dressing like Freddie Mercury in suspenders while hoovering the front room and singing "I want to break free."
The Prince is quite right. This has GOT to stop.
Did I mention that Owenov is quite forgetful?
Well, by his standards, yesterday was the Mother of all forgetfulness days.
Mrs Owenov (we'll call her the Belfast knee-capper and hope she doesn't read this) came around to collect the car keys yesterday. "Where did you park the car?" she quite reasonably asked.
"Umm, I can't remember."
There then followed a 10-minute discussion about where in the whole of Cardiff Owenov might have parked the car, including excuses like: "Well I nearly crashed into Son of Bono and that put me off and then I just parked it and walked in and..."
Finally, after more umming and aahing than is good for you, and for his knee caps, he finally had a Eureka moment. By this time the sports desk in its entirety was rolling around on the floor, emitting hoots of derision.
It was Champy's 40th last night. Well, she's been celebrating for the last two months so why would Friday night be any different? Champy works in the Newspaper Sales department. She's a good laugh and enjoys a night out so, having promised myself a quite Friday, I ended up listening to my own personal DJ in the City Arms, dancing around, shoeless, tie around head, and didn't get home until 12. I could really do with some beans on toast which, I am reliably informed, is what Shutts has been living on since the Mrs went away, but am in no fit state to cook it.
Last night Freeman and I spent much of our time trying to find our mobile phones. First I couldn't find mine. "Let's ring it," he said. Queue Kenny Rogers ringtone and vibration at my left nipple. It's in my inside pocket.
Later Freeman says: "Think I've lost my phone. Ring it, can you?"
Within seconds we hear his ringtone blaring out into the Cardiff night. It's in his coat pocket.