I had a dream the other night… it had badgers in it. I know a certain person dreamt of badgers the same night and also spent the previous day singing the Wombles theme… so did I.! Now how bizarre is that.?!
Actually my dreams recently have been remarkably vivid and totally bonkers. How often do you dream of ur ex and her sister in the bath with you peeing over them both.? Nope.? Thought not. Wouldn’t it be odd if dreams were real life though… would be almost like one of those blogs I do where I tell big lies about everything… *doses off at desk* “ZzzzzZZzzZZZZZZZZZzzzzzz” *random harp music*
So Friday night. What a strange night. Hwang had inflated both of his feet and turned up with a massive pair. Of shoes. Lemony, Angel and Brownie elected to visit a gentlemans outfitters before turning up at Bar 4 and all were dressed in a fine set of matching pin stripe suits, dicky bows and the sort of shirt that not even Liberace would have worn. I just wore an elephant posing pouch which meant my knob kept trying to force currant buns up my ass. Even after Sir Stewart and Lady Pouty, the newest gentry figures to grace the South West, the classiness of the conversation was still low. It dropped even further when “Lady” Pouty started igniting her farts and Stewart was caught slapping his semi erect genitals onto the upstairs bar whilst hollering “Taste my salty goodness”.
Would the night improve in Phoenix.? Would Hwang ever get his enormous plates of meat into Hobbits.? Would Pouty ever put out the raging inferno caused by the immolation of her underwear.? Read on to find out.!
After a quick foray to Wild Coyote, a short sword fighting sequence with a Samurai Bouncer, the ingesting of a bowl of live whelks washed back with a cup of bovril and Angel removing the barmaids ears with an angle grinder, we bumbled into Phoenix, Lemony running ahead shouting “The British are coming, THE BRITISH ARE COMING” and ringing a bell (think it was Chris’s). Drinks were bought, duels were provoked, footlongs were measured, sliced and covered in lettuce and sweet onion sauce. We were joined pro temp, by Giles and his pet gimp, Jim. Giles had decided to arrive in a pimped up 1988 Ford Escort replete with Bros singing “I Owe You Nothing” and gold curtains in the rear windows. Jim had fouled himself on the journey and had to be hastily hosed down on the balcony by Donna Summer and some bloke named Nigel. Hwang’s massive feet exploded at exactly 10.49pm and his shoes were last seen re-entering the earth’s atmosphere at mach 8 by an American missile tracking radar, before they burnt up over Worle.
We carried the footless Hwang to Hobbits (hehehehe, Hobbleits, 
) while Nurse Angel applied a tinture of iodine to his stumps and then bound them tightly in newspaper to prevent loss of blood, bile, guilt, alcohol and cheese. The grater which was tucked into his socks at the time of the explosion was found in St James Street, still smelling vaguely of Primula spread. I had by this time lost all co-ordination in my hands and found myself playing Handel’s water music on a piano in a large puddle outside Scally’s. I made £4.35 in tips from drunken bikers and got one phone number from a large lad called Brian who is into painting himself green and hooting like Daffy Duck.
Hobbits turned out to be empty apart from Sexy David who had managed to flood the ceiling with a mix of helium and water and was drowning with a high pitched voice. Having thrown up a heavy life jacket we managed to contain the flooding to the upper floors and one passing seagull had to be shot, well you have to have a hobby.! David was none the worse for his experience, although his high pitched voice continued until later and was passed onto Hwang… we think.
Lemony made an event of herself by selling tickets to a Festival of Transport underneath her skirt. The steam from the traction engines sadly kept misting up her bra and she had to close earlier than intended, although a good time was had by all. One bus remains stuck. Brownie passed out early on in the club toilets whilst eating a multi-pack of Viscount chocolate and mint biscuits. A small terrier was sent in to the cubicle to wake her up but ate all the biccies instead and left messages all over the dance floor. Jim lost his gimp mask to a large polar bear near the bar and had to make do with a pair of Sir Stewart’s pants until a new mask could be fashioned from a black gothic pantyliner, with two eye holes cut in it.
What a great night it turned out to be… although Saturday night, with Husky playing the accordian whilst juggling pickled eggs and jiggling her breasts to the tune of “Young Girl” by Union Gap from 1968 may have been even better… you see…. zzZzZZ… wha.? What.?
OOooooh sorry, dropped off to sleep for a bit there.. now I was about to write a blog wasn’t I.?