Once a week the chaps from the council come along to collect the recyclables. We are provided with two bins per household (meaning I have to share with Cunt) a purple one for plastic and tins (which is pathetic because the former can only be recycled by type not generically –still, I chuck all my plastic in anyway, just in case it won’t wind up in a landfill) and a green one for bottles and newspapers.
Last night at about 11pm Cunt decided to recycle his stuff, something he doesn’t usually bother doing because he’s a dribbling gitprong, so, of course instead of popping it quietly in the fucking bin like a normal human he stands a few feet away and throws each item in one by one, just so the whole of fucking south London knows of his benevolence to humanity. This morning when I came down one bin was full of the remnants of fine wines and broadsheets, the other full of tins of Stella Artois and Carling and a single copy of last Thursday’s Sun.
I had a pleasant evening, met up with Frank in the local for a couple of chocolaty ales and a couple of tabs in the marquee out back, before returning home for a luxury bath in which I was able to submerge my sweet little head without fear of winding up like that bloke in the John Betjeman Poem with the egg shaped head and crap tie. I ate supper, steamed broccoli and the other Chicken Kiev I bought last week, it wasn’t very nice to be honest, never again, as I watched Gordon Ramsey doing his magicians act for some cunts in Wales.
At some point between acts, an advert appeared on TV for ‘Jackie, the Album’. Jackie was a girl’s magazine in the 70’s, it was aimed at girls older than my sister but my mate Paul had a sister who was just the right age. We used to ‘borrow’ her copy primarily to read the problem pages, first time I ever saw the phrase ‘smelly discharge’ and I nearly died laughing, I digress, I was just leaving the room to get some more wine when I was forced back to listen to the featured tracks. It was like being stunned with a nostalgia gun, one of the songs my granny used to sing to me, another I’d not heard since the long drought of 1976, another one I really liked but didn’t know who the fuck the band was… I must have it in my possession, sod the fact that it will be the gayest thing I’ve ever had, ever. Even gayer than Eddie Izzard kissing the tiny face of a weeping fairy sat on a daisy.
After the News and an Alan P on Dave I became bored. It was too early for bed and too late to get steaming so I challenged myself to a top ten, (this was possibly a reaction to Jackie, the Album?)
I’d had two pints and two wines and thought it was only fair that in two minutes I spontaneously regurgitated my top ten favourite films. Being a tad tipsy one is a little more honest than one would be if, say, cavorting about the NFT of an afternoon stone cold sober. Besides, when one is a wee bit pissed every minute seems longer (and more bearable). So here it is, unedited and as it came out. I was rather surprised by the lack of zombies.
Withnail and I
Back to the Future 2
10 Rillington Place
The Great Escape
North by Northwest
Kind Hearts and Cornonets
Now you try, if you’ve any balls you can post them as a comment, but no cheating…
Or u di
(sorry about this)