I have got to work and I am only an hour late which is pretty good for me. I am thoroughly mashed up in the brain hole from last night. Booze just leaves you feeling like a carcass in a ditch, but last night I heavily utilised the Magic Spong Whistle. And I am pleased to inform you that I am still benefiting.
If you wear your coat indoors you won't feel the benefit when you go out.
It was Limbz's birthday yesterday and celebrations were in evidence. Happily Birthdayed Limbz. Spong Whistle aside there were hats. I wore between one and three hats for most of the evening, but by the end of my participation in events I had trimmed hattage to no hats. That again: No Hats. This was on account of a subtle surge in the local magnetic field which served to mince my claputron and fluff my fongle-hatch. I had to go hatless as a result.
I am sat at my desk writing this and beside me a group of what can only be described as Human Geese have descended and are honking by way of language. No matter how hard I scream at them they won't go away.
So there was this subtle surge in the local magnetic field. Whilst I was in the position to make the necessary adjustments yesterday it reminded me of a time when I was in a similar position and I could not make the necessary adjustments. I could only make unnecessary adjustments. Which reinforces the maxim "when anything you can do will make matters worse, try to do as much as you can. And don't forget some money for the bus" which is a fine maxim to live by.
I am a bit tired now I need to sit down. Oh, I am sat down, how fortuitous. Someone has brought me a cup of tea and Pink Floyd have gone into a long loping groove which goes bum ba-dum. I had both my hands where the audience could see them, and no one was offended or even moistened. That's what I told Cardinal Biggles and that is what I am telling you.
Exeunt.
25 comments:
Horay for the babble of the mashed up, white collared, burberry disdaining consumetariat that is your imbibing self. Every other little kiddie in this house is still in the bedfordshire county of slumberland visiting their relatives in lazytown. The youth of today have no stamina! Having said that the Elephant, that must have crashed the party after i went to bed, has just staggered across the landing (making the earie early morning calls of all intoxicated elephants: '#honk, honk blow# #stamp stamp stamp# #investigate grub sounds#) to possibly be sick. I have spent a good long time kicking my multitudinous heels, vaguely contemplating a clear up operation the likes of which not even Geroge W. and Earl long have considered. contemplated. What an enjoyable evening we all had.
I shall cheerily sign off with 'despite your attempts to deflect my attention with veiled comments alluding to my mis-spent youth you were 0\/\//\/Z3|> 1457 Njt3! Ai
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Exeunt?
So there is/are more than one of you then? Are you, perchance, Legion? Or do you just suffer from multiple personality disorder?
Personally I like to recover from a night's alcohol abuse by staggering about all day pretending to be okay, and then periodically vomiting to prove that I was lying.
It's a hobby, I suppose.
If the geese haven't gone, try luring them away with holiday brochures, copies of OK or Hello magazine and maybe some pictures of other people's babies. They may go and honk elsewhere.
we don't suffer from it. We enjoy it.
The geese have already made an effective bedding of all the OK heat and hello magazines we had to hand. I intend to lure them away with the promise of a land with no Christmas or the threat of an early one. I haven't decided yet. All that matters is success.
Hmmm.
There's been something bothering me, too. It's my hair. For many years now, my lustrous thatch has grown not an inch. When I run my fingers through my locks they come away moist, whether it's been raining or not, and covered in mildew.
I went to the doctor.
"Pull yourself together, John", he always gets my name wrong, and often inadvertently uses inappropriate 'doctor, doctor' punchlines. "Sleep on the edge of the bed and you'll soon drop off. When was the last time you looked in a mirror?"
He produced one from his lapel and, holding it in front of me, revealed not a full head of hair, but a rotting woollen hat (there is a connection, see).
"Now I remember!" I exlaimed. "I put that on when I was five, and never took it off."
"Don't worry, it's just a gilt complex. Yes. It would also explain why your head, restricted by the woollen hat that you put on when you were five, has not grown in relation to your body, and is in relative size as a tennis ball is to a melon. Use a pencil until I get there. I wouldn't start watching any new soap operas, if I were you. Take two of these three times a day four times every second fortnight unless it's a leap year -"
I left him then (caught in a particularly bad feedback loop) whooping with joy that I'd finally solved the riddle of my rotting mildew hair and horrifyingly misshapen head.
There was a trend some years back for women to place their babies in molds, to shape them like so much mewling poopy jelly. I was a Q. My other occupation, when not doing what I don't do here, is being the Q on the port side of the QE II. It is a briney existence, but one I eminently suitable for.
So MonkeyChops, you have a small head? Were you the small headed assailant who beat me about the face and neck last June and made off with my freshly salvaged Nazi gold?
It is possible; after all Monkeycjops did admit to having a gilt complex...
(Groan)
That should, of course, read Monkeychops.
Monkeycjops is someone else altogether (a member of the Ukranian mafia).
You'd do well to stay out of the Ukraine, comrade.
Mr Frictionless - you are confusing me with some other small headed freak.
Unless... there was this one bloke that I beat around the upper torso last year for his Nazi gold. That could, I suppose, have been you. Are you sure it was just around the face and neck that you were beaten?
One way to be sure; the man who I attacked had a birthmark in the shape of Poland on his left, and only, buttock.
It can't have been me, my buttock sports a birthmark resembling Rita Hayworth.
Ah... Rita Hayworth. An underrated actress, and worthy of a place in ALL of our buttocks.
I have a tattoo of Marlon Brando on my stomach. Having recently gained 16 stone in weight (I went on the Atkins diet) it's like a 'before' and 'after' shot, tracing his career from slim 'A Streetcar Named Desire' to obese 'Don Juan'.
As an aside, I wouldn't recommend the Atkins diet. I tried it, and have since passed away.
The Chet Atkins diet? Is that the one where you play country guitar for many years and die of colon cancer?
Sounds like a winner!
I was about to mention that it could be the Marmalade Atkins diet (which consists of calling everyone 'cock' until they smash you in the mouth and you can't eat properly for a month), but I doubt that anyone remembers Marmalade Atkins.
(I should clarify that I only remember because my little sister used to read the books when she was a kid. This was before she joined the resistence and started blowing things up, of course. Now you just can't stop her: balloons; inflatable matresses; sex dolls; other people's noses... she's obsessed. Or should that be possessed?)
I remember Marmalade Atkins, unfortunately. Was that the one that had the intensely irritating snob character who used to say, "I'll sthcweam and sthcweam and sthcweam!"(scream with a lisp), who I think was played (appropriately) by Bonnie Langford?
By the way Mr Frictionless, thanks for feeding me over the weekend and I would just like to say, "meatloaf and gremlins!".
Ha!
I hate to say it but... yes - Bonnie Langford (hack, spit, cough, vomit) was involved in the TV version of the irritating kids' books.
Great diet though; really works.
I just can't get enough of ironic deaths. Dr Atkins choking on a rib eye steak; the man who invented jogging dropping dead during his morning excursion and so on.
Why, just yesterday, Bonnie Langford choked to death on her own smile.
Hooray (in my best munchkin voice) "Ding dong the witch is dead, the witch is dead..." Everybody! Sing along!
Woohoo!
"Ding dong the witch is dead, the witch is dead, the witch is dead, the witch is dead, the witch is dead, the witch is dead, the witch is dead, the witch is dead" (I'm doing this aloud, too, you know) "the witch is dead, the witch is dead, the witch is dead" (out of breath, now. Getting funny looks from the other people on the train. Got the giggles. Sweating. Hyperventilating) "the witch is dead, the witch is dead, but maybe she's not, I'm just not sure, and now I'm scared, she is a witch, after all, do witches breath, I'll check her pulse......"
Everything slows down. Outside, a blur of soft rain, unreal somehow. Only the carriage - seats and cigarette butts and styrofoam cups - has substance. The station melts gently in the steamed up window. Passengers disembark; on their way home, to work, to their lovers; spiralling out from this mechanical epicentre like fractal fireflies dancing to a barely heard sonata. Ah yes,
"Ding dong, the witch is dead, the witch is dead, the witch is dead, the witch is dead -"
And so the 16.20 from Doncaster to Sternum continued its eventful journey, until it reached its destination, at which point, it stopped.
Oooooookaaaay....?
What on earth was that about? Anonymous must be some kind of a crazy fool to be writing gibberish like that.
Oh, I forgot, it was me.
And what about this so-called 'MonkeyChops'? Thinks he's clever, does he? Thinks he's funny, does he? Eh? Well? Hmm? You mark my words, I'd show him a thing or -
Oh, I forgot, that's me.
the witch is dead, the witch is dead, the witch is dead, the witch is dead, this is fun, the witch is dead, the witch is dead, ha ha ha haaaaaaaaaa!!!!!!!!! the witch is dead, oh christ I can't stop, the witch is dead, the witch is aaaaagh!!!!!
Sorry everyone. I really wish I hadn't started doing that now.
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