After a thoroughly pressurised day at work I left a few minutes early and climbed on my black bitch. Within seconds of getting on my bike some cunt in a black BMW tried to drive into me. After he honked his horn at me for no reason what so ever I screamed ‘fuck you!’ at a enough volume for him to express his frustration, which prompted me, entirely out of character to say ‘come on then’ (I heard it come out all cross as if someone else said it). Mercifully he got frightened and drove off… but something of this scene seemed to have penetrated the cosmos, for on my journey home, I was forced to let off two further ‘fuck you’ (s) and one ‘indicate cunt’ as the drivers of sarf London took it on themselves to pull out in front of me, perform surprise u-turns and generally conspire to have your old mucca screaming in the back of an ambulance.
After arriving home (physically shaking I hasten to add –a combination of rage and fear) I changed my DM’s to my trusty Converse and rushed out to grab the tube to Leicester Square in order to meet my bro and an old mate, Arnie in a local hostelry. After a few pints Arnie and I went back to his magnificent apartment in Charing Cross and we smoked this quite amazing grass with his wife and nattered away as I held a whiteout at arms length. As the evening passed I became mildly concerned about getting home. Oddly, smoking dope and tubes don’t mix for me, I get panicky when I’m stoned underground, but this shit had the reverse effect on my barnet. For the entire journey back I was stifling idiotic giggles and the urge to spontaneously talk to passengers, which I didn’t. The misanthrope in me wins every time, see.
I got back in time to watch that showman doctor Gunther Von Hagen cut up some 25 stone bloke who had died of being, well, a 25 stone bloke. Jamie Oliver (who virtually undid all of his good work in recent years in a second) urged us to watch the inside guts of a fellow who spent his life eating delicious deep fried pies. Trouble is the Plastination process developed by that Penny Dreadful removes all the squirty liquid horror of human insides; when the stiff was finally opened up following a virtual drum roll, we’re presented with something that resembles waxy lasagne, which is surely ironic? Anyway, the dramatic lighting, the faces of horrified audience members completely undermines any sort of educational factor. I was actually expecting a hysterically played organ and a rolling laugh, at least that would’ve been honest because what we got instead was cheap vaudeville that should act as a shame fart for all involved.
I was saved by the Snooker and a late arriving Myfwt who breezed in and went directly to bed, it was late, with me joining her shortly after. Incidentally, this snooker thing, you really ought to give it a shot, it’s wonderful. Oh, before I leave you with some tunes there is a comment on yesterdays post worth checking with reference to something I said about Masterchef…. Go there after this choon, then see how we’re getting on with that popular music video I ‘reviewed’ a few days ago. Do these things to please me.