My evening begun in excellent circumstances. I mean even the tube journey to Clapham Common was acceptable. I was due to meet my bro in the pub at 6 but we arrived at the same time on the tube platform, we walked up the road in the warm evening sunshine to our pub of choice and, after waiting fucking hours to get served, discussed the matters of the day, namely Cho and his guns o’ doom.
The pub in question is frequented by those awful media types that hang out in hip clubs and bars at the weekend, actually, I’m not entirely sure why I like it, perhaps because the atmosphere is, despite being poncy, congenial and that the clientele are largely polite and, for want of a better word, respectful. Last night for example, following a few ales, I opened the cubicle door in the boozer loo with some force, in error, and smashed a chap right in the face. When I pulled the door back I’d actually managed to push his glasses up his nose slapstick style, without missing a beat he looked me squarely in the eye and said’ sorry’.
I arrived home before 9 pm in reasonable spirits, I wanted to watch that programme about a nonce on channel 4 which I’ve reveiwed in Watch With Mothers (link right, just there look—>) and in order to do that I had prepare myself for the following day before it began, because I’m odd like that, and make something to eat.
This morning I cycled in again, that’s the whole week, first time I’ve done that in just under 2 years. Subsequently my back is feeling better and I feel quite prepared for the weekend’s shenanigans, essentially a stag-do with walking involved, expect a full review next week.
It’s fucking dead in the office this morning, a handful of staff are gawping into monitors, including one new member in his mid 20’s who is both ginger and balding, a deadly combination and to happen in one so young is a tragedy. It’s got me to thinking how I’d cope with such an affliction, it’s not as if his disorder is offset with rugged good looks and a dazzling personality. He dresses like a New York bum and the only time I heard him talk was when he was asking another member staff if they could get hold of a poster for Showboat. Fucking Showboat! What sort of a man even says the word out loud, let alone admitting to liking it so much they want a fucking poster of it. He must be good at arranging flowers. Anyway, he sat across the way blowing his fucking nose like a granny, not doing any work and generally being all weird. (Why doesn’t he just fucking shave it off?)
I’m going to get through the day, get back home and prepare for tomorrow, preparation includes not going to the pub or drinking too much as I need to be up at fucking 7am to get to the station to hook up with the chaps to take the train…
Oh my congratulations to the son from my mate oop t’north as he’s just taken his first shit in a potty. Well done lad, lets just hope you don’t have the same odour affliction as your father who can down passing sparrows.
Imagine going bald AND being ginger, Jesus.
Oh, on the subject of afflictions, yes, he’s Welsh but he’s also jolly good and partially responsible for one of the 20th century’s most important bands. If you’re very good I may well present some of the stuff of the first band Jools mentions…