I could not bring myself to say that he looked good on the ice; yes the sequins and Lycra were correct for competitive ice-skating, but they were not correct for competitive Ultimate Ice Rink Fighting. The Poles are the team to beat at the moment, they've got a new Excessive Brutality and Unflinching Cruelty coach this season and he's helped raise their average to 4. No one has had a 4 average since the Austrian in the 1950s. Who knows, maybe Poland will assume the mantel that the Austrians lost so pathetically that crisp morning at Blood in the Rink 1957?
In a strange twist of fate we have managed to remain largely unaffected by this, and had a quiet week. A bit of practice, a bit of songwriting but nothing too excessive. We've still got to arrange a date for the BBC session, and now that my mum has sent us a 2006 calendar I can start making plans. Diaries are not very effective for me, since I tend to not bother looking in them after I have written whatever I'm supposed to be doing in them. However, since the appointed calendar spot is on the way to the toilet I always look at it. That's organisation is that.
We didn't play the gig on the 26th in the end. We still sound a little on the bumbling side, so we left the noise at home. Instead we "Geeked it up" with Ollie and played Halo 2 until our blood-lust was satisfied. I actually managed to kill the occasional opponent, which left me feeling pleased but not smug. As it should be. By the time we got to the No Sign Wine Bar to see the King of Despair, who were very good, I was quite well lubricated. We had bought a box of wine for the Geeking session and the problem with me and boxes of wine is that I start to drink it like lemonade, just press the little button and squoosh, more booze! It is pretty close to my conception of heaven actually, except the box would be much bigger and made of gold covered otter fur and peacock tongues.
Nothing else to report really. Message ends.
12 comments:
'Neighbor' instead of 'neighbour'? Is this an attempt to curry favour (or favor) with our transatlantic cousins?
Or is it an attempt to curry, deep-fry and even incinerate innocent words in a bizarre and macabre culinary experiment?
You're not wrong. You should have seen it before the spell checker got to it. I'll blame it on Monday and leave it alone to show the world that I am not as perfect as they believe me to be.
Maybe they're all scared of you Mr Hughes?
It's possible I suppose. Maybe it's because I took my mask off and then did a comedy double take because I wasn't wearing one in the first place which, y'know, meant I'd ripped my own face off... (pause for rueful shrug of shoulders)
So there I was, standing in Debenhams howling like a wolf at the store detective, bloodied rag of facial flesh still clutched in my claw like hand, snarling at him "It's not a mask, it's not a mask, it's not a mask - what are you look at motherf***er?"
I suppose that may have disturbed some of them.
Or it could be the fact that I eat babies for my tea.
Or the fact that I just farted and cleared the office in less than 30 seconds (which is actually better time than that which we achieve when we do a fire drill, so we're thinking of using my arse instead of a fire alarm in future).
Or maybe they're not scared of me at all. Maybe it's you who has farted. Maybe it's you that eats babies...
Have you been arested in Debenhams recently by any chance?
No, but I was attacked by a flock of sparrows whilst looking for a Travel Scrabble set there once. I complained to the manager, but he was more interested in eating bamboo.
I got the Scrabble from Woolworths in the end.
Ahhh, Woolworths.
I remember the time that I went into Woolworths.
I tore off both of my buttocks and stuffed them up my nostrils in a freakish, impromptu, bloody and unconvincing impersonation of a walrus. The manager on that occasion was kind; he merely insisted on having my head smashed in with baseball bats by his hired goons and then on arranging for me to be merchandised with the pick and mix by one of his underpaid 16 year old cashiers (oh the hilarity that ensued when one of my eyeballs was mistaken for a sherbet lemon by a hungry kleptomaniac infant).
Customer service is nothing short of outstanding in that company. He even arranged for a name badge saying "C**tface" for me to wear.
Happy days.
"Cuntface" is spelled with a U and an N rather than two asterisks replacing same, you f*cker.
Hey, I didn't produce the badge; Woolworths did. Not my fault if they can't spell.
Quite right Mr Chot. As my mother used to say:
"L*ttle Fric*ionl*ss, you shit fac*d rat cocked motherfucker, n*ver ce#n¬or y%ur o"n wo:k. I w$sh y}u we~e dead, y*u spunk encrusted, arse-whoring $2 trick turner."
Words I have paid heed to ever since. Tits.
She sounds like a fabulous woman. Not like my mum who once made me eat eat shit because in her words 'you seem to like the feel of it on your tongue' rest assured i stuck to words like 'oh dear' the next time I fucked up.
I think more people should refer to the icons of the chattering class in terms of seventies playground insults. I think Thomas Pynchon was also a mong, Satre was a spastic and de Beauvoir was a joey and a crip.
I was sharing a jar of peppermints with the Satori Defence Pod (Resilience Class) last night. He's a bit of a bender if you ask me.
Camus licked windows.
If you ask anyone who knows him, really.
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