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[05 Nov 2004|08:43am] |
And so it is that we arise yet again on a cold and bright Friday morning. I'm a little late today as i've been trying to pin down last night. It was a little odd, to tell you the truth.
Work was finely brisk, like kicking shoes into an incinerator. Burn those soles! Give 'em hell! Fuck off, slip ons..sixteen people.
Roy arrived at the back door at nine thirty, looking less than cheery but said that he'd be back later when I was out of the kitchen. I duly finished work and completed my ritual of dumping rags in Alek's flat, re-tying my hair, and changing shoes, then sat with an already arrived Stuart and Bolb.
I stood at the bar talking gibberish whilst Stuart laughed in a way that said "Don't know WHY i'm laughing here", which I think is caused by myself emitting random lines of insanity, then going "What?" when he starts laughing. This made him say "Just you, mate"
Hmmm.. "What?"
More laughing.
"What?"
And so it went on. Andy Eastwell's Quote Of The Week:
"Don't turn it on, 'cos it'll only get better"
Yes, we're not entirely sure of the meaning of this one, either. Back to the bar. A fun post work drinking with Bolb and Stu then, and Stoney keep good his word, nestling in the corner of the bar table. He's still subdued, lacking in the spirit I know..still, I kept my mouth shut having no good words to give, and simply concentrated on guffawing talk, which he joined in as only Roy could.
Which was good. Nice to see that part of him again. Especially as Ian's digs about my hair were getting so excruciatingly bare faced that I was near SHOUTING at the bar and no longer being able to throw a cover over my fucking discontent with the place. We removed our hairbands and deliberately threw our hair about like so many ragdolls, in as wayward and insane fashion possible.
My FUCKING thought is...that essentially what draws ignorance is the majority of the prosaic CUNTS in the Bell have no more likely seen a long haired man in ten years than they have a pink buffalo. Now, you do not for instance have bald men in the pub being chastised for trying to look like each other. As soon as I grow past five inches i'm trying to look like Roy.
Fuck off. The only similarity is we're both fucking pissed off with this self righteous idiotically pretentious bunch of proles gassing on about their prick lives and prick jobs, and prick ambitionless activities. Their equal love of short prison inmate hair truly mirrors their boring one dimensional minds.
We grow our hair. Why? Simple enough...because we fucking like having long hair. I with my unseemly flock of hair, necked a glass of wine and danced to the toilet, in a big "FUCK YOU" groove of distaste for the supposedly normal.
I am rambling again. Though it makes far more sense to myself. Guiness truly rots the grammar. Oooh, and the bowels. I must go and attend.
I'd necked a few drinks, then. However, the fundamental truths are much the same to me this morning. I'm fucked off with having to coset parts of myself to conform to this pub and it's hateful parade of familiarity. Next year, i'm outta here.
Walked Melanie home, still full of babbling words. Then I fell into bed and watched "Coupling" again. Stop worrying! STOP IT!
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[05 Nov 2004|09:06am] |
Get out of it. Stop crowding me, you lot! One at a time, please...
Oh. There's just me here. Right, me. Today, Phylly, you're going to get your arse to work and sigh into a sink again for three hours, after which a tidy walk home beckons, your head swimming with songs, and what could be.
Marvellous.
I'm thinking some LOTR music, I don't know about you.
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[05 Nov 2004|09:09am] |
Another interesting thing I didn't mention. Last night...another conversation with myself. It's a little odd, but I try sometimes to look at my image to see what others do, why the hell someone should like this jaw, these eyes, that hair. I wondered what there was to love about it. What would bowl somebody over in there.
I don't know...there are quirks....a side of my mouth has a crease that the other side doesn't...it's peculiar. I couldn't say I was happy about what I saw...but as always I looked at my eyes and remembered what was good about me.
Searching, young, naieve eyes...full of child like wonder and soul. All my thoughts are in them, displayed around the retina...in the pupils...in the white. You could find out so much about me by popping them out and putting them under a microscope.
I think they're what makes my face. Something fucking has to.
It's important for me to confront this.
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[05 Nov 2004|09:14am] |
The blustery night swept it's embracing evils around me, forcing my step quicker and almost tripping me up on it's serrated gales.
I was almost home again, peering through my hedge at the moon, which was greeting me as it usually did, held like a lamp in a black sleeved hand. That moon fell as I entered, swimming through my giddy stupour into the artificial light of the house, stepping over the doorstep and lazily climbing stairs to bed.
Thoughts are always better during drink. They no longer override sleep, nor are they as troublesome. I had many, ballroom dancing in my stomach.....hitting the sides like die in one of those gambling things...their name escapes me. These things prod and carress at me, some are gentle and pure, some heinous and difficult.
I finally came to the conclusion again that I didn't know what the hell I was trying to work out. And fell asleep.
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| I've got the charts to boil your arse./ |
[05 Nov 2004|09:40am] |
Charts for yer ears, Gimme the beers!
1. Vertigo - U2
Still up there. If there's one thing U2 are good at, it's performing in wastelands, and making the kind of horny rock that makes you want to kick an asteroid. Lovely.
2. Misty - Ella Fitzgerald.
Ah, the tentative foosteps of a desire. Somebody get the lady a drink, even if in the heavens. This song IS autumn.
3. (NE)
You only live twice theme - Royal Philarmonic Orchestra.
Hate Bond, these grotty little spy movies dressed up by opulent effects and classless womanising. However, this is timeless, a drifting superior piece of cinematic elegance. It puts me in the world of adventure I so wish existed...perhaps it does. Gorgeous.
4. (N.E) The breaking of the fellowship - Howard Shore
I do like my soundtracks, do I not? The method this piece takes to unfurl is simply gentle and sublime, and not a little weepy, if you're in the mood for watching emotional hobbits trying to drown themselves. Seriously....it's ace.
5. (N.E) Speaking in tongues - Toni Braxton.
Naughtiness in chocolate form.
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[05 Nov 2004|10:11am] |
Ha ha....this is what kind of a man I am....I sat back in my chair here, stretching and leaning my head back....growling with irritable tiredness....opened my eyes, and saw...five sticky plastic frogs attatched to the ceiling. I laughed yes I did.
What? Just in...terrible news...the kind of revelations that make the earth spin on it's axis and fall down a snooker table pocket.
We've run out of tea bags.
This is a dark day.
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| Love is........... |
[05 Nov 2004|10:28am] |
"I thought i'd hit the jackpot...he was funny...interesting...sexy....everything..."
"So what was wrong with him?"
"He took a Jack In the Box everywhere....once he pressed the button in front of my mother, it hit her in the face...."
"oh dear"
"he even brought it to bed"
"Please...stop...I don't want to know"
"Neither did I"
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[05 Nov 2004|03:42pm] |
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mood |
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 angry |
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Look, just don't ask. Seriously. You don't HAVE to, because i'll tell you. I've had a fucking awful afternoon's work. I couldn't have asked for more work to do, in such a short time. I am dirty, annoyed and genuinely pissed off with work. I'm sick of the plates, the blenders, the havoc, the food, the crap, the stench, and the shouting, crashing, banging, and the floor.
I'm sick of it, and i'm frisky too. SHIT, this puts me in a bad mood. To be angry is one thing, to be angry and horny is quite another. Gah.
I'm also about to get chucked off the computer so that my uncle and father can use it. Can we say right cunting well pissed off?
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[05 Nov 2004|04:24pm] |
Well, i'm still here, but for how long I know not. The skies darken outside and I grow tired with the failing light. Most unusual to a night owl like me. One of the blisses is falling asleep mid afternoon in the midst of autum at about 4pm, when the room grows dim. I can nap quite nicely then.
I may do that. Have to get tea bags first. When I have, i'll nestle up to my duvet with a cup of tea and some more "Coupling".
When I awaken i'll roll down the Bell.
Melanie is twenty one this Saturday. Oddly, we have been getting on quite well lately, I guess my mind is preoccupied with nicer things for a change. Despite the horrors of washing up and it's effect on my blood pressure, inner turmoils are not presenting themselves to cause that pot pourri of depression that usually takes place. I've been quite good, even becoming nearly like my old self. You should have seen me last night. I was wiggling my little arse like a baby lamb shakes it's tail, to some soul music. Andy plays good stuff in the kitchen.
I'll find those times for you soon, honey. From where you are you should be able to get to Charing Cross station in a few minutes. It's about 400 yards according to my dear old mother. From there it's about an hour or two's trip to Minster, at which i'll be. Don't worry, i'll be wearing clothes. THIS time.
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[05 Nov 2004|06:21pm] |
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music |
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The breaking of the fellowship - Howard Shore |
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As it happens, Uncle David did not arrive, so I am still here and still browsing. I've been reading the http://www.b3ta.com newsletter, which is out now. And you should have a look.
If you're bored and at work, you'll appreciate it even more.
And even if you're simply crying and eating cookies whilst smashing ornamental voles with hammers. Imagine that, and you're halfway there.
I'm staying in a little later tonight. Because guess what, you listening EYES? The Simpsons is back on terrestrial (Pauper television for Brits, or those who don't care abotu sattelite.)
I am happy. These are from the twelth season, which is some way back but still new enough to make me punch a fist in the air and accidentally bash the chandelier.
Misguided Firework's night events: "Those flaming kids"; a harrowing bonfire festival featuring the wicker representations of all the children attending, along with a list of their faults and misdemeanours, read out in front of their faces by an angered priest, whilst the effigy's are burnt. Also attending: Ronald Mcdonald.
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[05 Nov 2004|08:01pm] |
Okay, my time is up for today, as fireworks begin to crack and bang at various speeds and rhythms...some of them sound like spectres banging at the windows.
Wish I could enjoy it more.
May see you online tomorrow, Ms Beanie.
xxx.
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| The Blurty Personals that never made it - The Return |
[05 Nov 2004|08:02pm] |
Name: Catherine_Wheel
Where i'd like to be right now: "Hurling fingernails at donkey riders."
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