scally walli

It’s worth pointing out to regular readers that since my ‘pyscho’ episode last week in the face of Cunt, I’ve not heard a peep out of him. It’s possible I’ve instilled some concern into his system, that I’ve been at least seen as having the capacity for aggressive irrationality, if we consider that it’s now only a fortnight before his hairy baby and anorexic g/f are due to show, he may have decided the best policy is to not piss me off.

Obviously as far as I’m concerned the damage was done a long, long time ago. I can only be appeased by his demise, nay, death.

After seeing Frank for two pints in the local following another not-worth-dwelling-on day in the office I arrived home and took a bath. Supper had been planned to the minutiae, a combination of fresh salad, potato salad, some of the coleslaw from yesterday and some fresh cheese rolls/buns (look they sound vile when in fact they’re fucking amazing, particularly when split and toasted, so FUKS OFS)

On Saturday I decided to cast my usual sausage purchasing net a little wider and happened upon some Irish celebrity chef’s effort, he’d been around a few years ago and I remembered his wife was quite attractive. Actually, he used to snipe at her during live shows… These were the sausages for me. I checked some basic details, yes, these were from Oirland alright, green pack, Celtic graphics, lots of guff about the Irish countryside etc., ‘press here’ and get back home to Derry…

Just before the bath, I examined the pack again, Pork and Scallion sausages they were, Then I noticed that ‘Scallion’ had written underneath it in capital letters ‘SCALLION IS IRISH FOR SPRING ONION’. The whole fucking pack nearly went in the bin, what cunt doesn’t know that? Moreover, what cunt would buy a pack like this where the consumer needs an explanation of a word on the front of a pack, in capitals, what kind of a tool… the whole fucking pack nearly went in the bin.

After the bath and the sausages and co., (they were delicious incidentally) I’d decided during the day to watch two films. The first, Secret Window, was crap, the second ‘The Last King of Scotland’ wasn’t. I may do a review of the latter on WWM (link right) so I won’t make a big deal of it here. I lazily drunk throughout the evening, I had a can of beer and a couple of G & T’s, in comparison to my recent habit, nothing really.

The latter film was on for fucking hours so by the time it finished it was after 1am and I was feeling ravaged. When I arose this morn I was a little hungover, a wash and brush-up corrected me sufficiently to undertake the journey by velocipede. It’s another beautiful day and the journey in was actually quite, well, okayish. In parts it was definitely all right. This was until I came off the towpath and joined the road that circumnavigates the industrial estate near my office.

Behind me was a maroon Minibus, I needed to turn right so with plenty of room I indicated and moved into the middle of the road. To my fucking horror instead of undertaking me the fucking driver overtook me on the wrong side of the road and gave me a load of mouth. I yelled back ‘I know your boss you cunt’, due to the hangover this came out as a cross between Lemmy and Mark Lanegan having franatic relations with Chewbacca, at commendable volume. The amount of times I’ve yelled abuse and it’s sounded like a blade of grass being blown by a 4 year old girl, but not today.

To make matter worse for the driver I really do know his boss, I called him up before I wrote this to drop him in the cack when I was still feeling vexed. Let’s hope it’s his sole means for supporting his bastard family and he gets fired eh?

Happy lovely day.