Arse, I am ill AGAIN. Glands swollen (Oi. Stop that. GLANDS not glans). Neck aches. Back aches. Everything aches. But I can’t have time off work because everyone else has the same thing and I refuse to let a little coldy thing beat me where the women are dropping like flies (man flu indeed, PAH).!
Where shall we go today then… Well I could go off on a rant about the C”unt”cil ordering sets of temporary traffic lights on two of the “not quite so busy” roads out of town AT THE SAME FUCKING TIME.! Fuck Meisters the lot of them. But I don’t think I will.
I will extoll the virtues of taking the piss out of twatty little retards in bad cars though… In this case the manky looking fucktard in a budget model Mk3 Fiesta who had applied £20 worth of reinforced plastic to the lower half of his one litre motor vehicle and tied a bean can to the exhaust. This little genius had somehow recreated, through the medium of vacuum moulded acrylic, a low budget Vauxhall Nova.! Now that is classy.! Take a shit car and turn it into a shit car that sounds like someone has poured gravel into the fuel tank. Respect.!
I apologise if anyone heard me singing “You are the perfect shrub, the perfect shrub” to NIN’s Perfect Drug, the weekend before last. I also apologise to Pouty who was then asked “How is your bush.?” as part and parcel of a night out with Fluffy Bunny and several drinks.
As for the weekend just gone, should I enlighten you all with one of my “imagination runs totally Tonto” blogs.??? Ok then (well I did enjoy the last one soooo much).!
Well Saturday began in Dominion, without Hwang, who had been detained by the FBI under the “prevention of tourism” act. His trousers were being held and interrogated by Anti-Terrorist Police and a controlled explosion was carried out on his pants, which turned out to be empty. We were joined (myself and Lemony) by an old friend, Doc Robbins, the world’s only Camel gynacologist (one hump or two). He had thankfully removed his extra long gloves to come back to town for a drink (and that drink lasted almost seven hours). Lemony was adorned in her new wig, a spare one of William Shatner’s which still retained a hint of Star Trek (some of the sprinkled ashes of Scotty were caught in the weave). I had arrived sporting an enormous pair of granny knickers which were pre-soiled by a Mrs Edna Fannytash of Chipping Sodbury.
After a quick drink each (two cups of tea and a pint of Fisherman’s Piss (not a real ale, just a pint of Fisherman’s Piss)) we hailed a passing horse and cart and were whipped soundly by a coachman as we travelled to the frighteningly chilly Phoenix. So cold in fact that a polar bear was sighted on the dance floor, shivering and moaning it was “a touch nippy in ‘ere”. Accompanying us soon after our arrival was Pouty and Stew (both having swapped clothes during a sex session on the dance floor of the function room, leaving Stew picking thong out of his arse for the rest of the night and Pouty swinging free in Stew’s boxers) closely followed by Angel and Chris. Angel had brought along her entire family including several dead relatives and a small statuette of her great grandmother, Hitler. Chris was just Chris, except for that slightly odd smell of opium and the tattoo of Cheri Blair on his right cheek.
Two (b)latent homosexuals turned up close to ten o’clock, David and Mr Slade, riding a pink pony with braided hair and gold cheek guards. No felching was performed on the pony but dubious noises were later heard in the toilets of Hobbits (”sluurrrrp, NEEEIIGGGHHHH, cough”).
Hobbits beckoned soon enough and Brownie carried us all on her back through the smells of Dolphin Square and past the bizarre tree house where she lived through out her childhood, eating nothing but Golden Grahams and shouting “Mooonnkkeeyyy” repeatedly via a megaphone (happy days apparently).
Ye Olde Hobbits was celebrating it’s 450th birthday last weekend so naturally costumes had been arranged and donned as soon as we entered the door. I quickly slipped into Queen Elizabeth (who wasn’t overly impressed but took it well) while Lemony climbed into the rotting carcass of Sir Walter Raleigh and hired a large Spanish galleon to sail around the dance floor firing cannon balls at all the little emo kids.
Mark presented himself as Henry the Eighth and chopped the heads off of several ladies before he was restrained by the bouncers and the video posted on youtube.com for all to see. Towards the end of the night James and Dan were clapped into the stocks and a large supply of foetid veggies were hurled at them purely for the amusement value. James soiled himself in such a fashion as to provoke Katie (who’s birthday it was) to wander around the club shouting “bring out your dead”.
As a finale everyone joined in a round of singing “God Save The Queen” before executing Pete for playing Chop Suey every weekend for the past God know’s how long.
And there we shall end. And kids… don’t have nightmares.
*****LATE NEWS*****
Forgot to mention… Underground train… two graffiti vandals. Deadness. Hehehehehehehehe. Well done boys. You got EXACTLY what you should have done. 100% good result.
Little formula for you all to remember… Human + 50 tonnes of aluminium + velocity of 45mph = loss of life or severe maiming. Stay off the lines people, it is not clever, not funny for the poor sod of a driver and causes untold mayhem for passengers trying to get to work. If you have so little common sense you do not understand the idea of trains being dangerous then I suggest you go try running off the cliff at Uphill and seeing if you have any aches and pains after you find the ground (150 feet later).
Also, 14 years old and dead “The teenager, from Rhosllanerchrugog, may have been on the railway with a group of youths moments before she was hit” should have known better.
Unlucky. But if she was stupid enough to be on a railway line with a train twelve foot tall and nine foot wide is nearby (well at any time really) then I am glad she can’t pass on her idiotic genes to offspring who might grow up to be just as retarded.
Harsh but fair I think.!