|
[13 Dec 2004|10:18am] |
An interesting night. Drank some Guiness whilst waiting for Graham Burton...he arrived at twenty five past eleven, having been in the New Inn since i'd left him...at about five o'clock. He'd had so much alcohol he couldn't even speak properly.
Giving up trying to get coherency from the Guiness master, I turned to Vince, who merely made vaguely scary suggestive remarks. A wasted evening, frankly.
Only brief this morning. I'm giving college a miss, as i'm simply too tired to go, and also have acheing limbs from an oncoming cold.
However, I still have to work. And that is where i'm going now. Toodles.
|
|
|
[13 Dec 2004|04:09pm] |
The lady is right, you know. Oh yes. Not long to go now...by my count...about...three weeks. To those of us living life as if it were water running through our fingers, that is no time at all.
I'm still ill, having returned from work. It's not any particular thing; sort of like a lacking of energy in legs and body. I could have got a lift to college from father, but frankly I would not have been able to focus on anything other than hair pulling and falling unconcious in my seat. I think tonight I will be doing little more than drinking some Guiness merely to get to sleep. That will be a little later than usual though......i'm in a mood for necking cyanide, frankly. Work was awful...only seventeen people, but the place was a fucking mess, and poor Danny was ill too, meaning everything was being done fifty percent more slowly than usual.
I finally emerged at twenty five past three, unhappy and tired. I'm really hoping i'm not becoming more rapidly lethargic. I used to be so much more engergetic than this.
|
|
|
[13 Dec 2004|04:16pm] |
Well, it appears I was so addicted to SOOZTALK (TM) yesterday afternoon, that I neglected to write about Sunday Lunch..
Well, you will understand how pissed Graham was when I tell you that after working until four, we trundled up to the New Inn to watch a godforsaken football derby between London clubs Arsenal and Chelsea, but also for the more important undertaking of knocking back a pint of Guiness after work.
I left after one, he didn't. Apparently he just got "talking to peop.....buying me pin.t......one in...ONE....HOw'd YIOU.....GET ONE IN THE WOOD? Ah..sfjhuckin' ell...."
You'll also understand why I couldn't understand a word of his speech last night. I did the frankly wise thing of going home between work and going out again. Graham drinks until going back to the Bell, in another pub.
I'm also thinking about New Year's Eve...think I may well stay in and simply have some wine, relax...I know Stoney has something planned but the idea of getting incredibly wankered simply holds no appeal, new year's or not. However Mr Stoney, we do have to go out sometime before the new year....not to the fucking Bell.
|
|
|
[13 Dec 2004|04:27pm] |
A lot of the reasons for me calling off tonight is that due to my lacking of dexterous brain power and energy to use my intelligence as well as my body...the mock exam we were to undertake would be a waste of time. I simply cannot cope with the idea of writing out a forty five minute paper, the dual role of thinking on my feet and writing with shaking hand, whilst my grey matter plops out of my ears and sods off is not worth it.
I would simply write about two lines and revert to dragging the pen along screaming "FUCK IT!", before banging my head on the desk, and rolling it from side to side, moaning.
No, best left till next week. Which will be our last one before Christmas. Half a lesson working, half of it drinking. Woo hoo. And Yay.
Up next..new stuff from my inspiration - at least one of them - Charlie Brooker.
|
|
|
[13 Dec 2004|04:31pm] |
These columns written by Brooker were the guiding light for me when bored and scouring the internet for some decent amusing writing amongst the acres of trash that claims to be such. The weekly column in the guardian newspaper, is one of the most vitriolically amusing and witty digests that any paper dares to publish. He's got into trouble for it on occasion, but only because of idiots taking and twisting words into literal meanings worthy of getting morally flustered about. But to find that out, you'll have to go a lookin', as i'm not kicking off that debate here.
Anyway, this is the book. And i'm 'avin it. Now. Well, six fucking weeks. Should amuse me on nights that i'd usually spent pulling my hair and screaming at a mirror.
|
|
|
[13 Dec 2004|04:45pm] |
One sparkly little cheery face amongst the quagmire of December pre Christmas tedium is the increasingly beautiful Advent Children, an animation Bolb and I have been shouting about since we had faces and mouthes.
It's looking amazing. Midgar (The Shinra run city from the original game) is looking like a grey opressive mass of girders, iron, dirt, and grimy air. This seven year old blocky vision of a dystopian anime gaming world has come to lif, populated by struggling residents, and of course, our crazy haired heroes.
Just hope the poxy thing ever gets released.
|
|
|
[13 Dec 2004|04:55pm] |
Oooh...I know what I was going to do...PSP fucking about....back in a moment...with a new mock up! You lucky, lucky lucky little sods.
Shit on me,
said the man to the bee
the bee justly obliged
the man felt nothing
more than a light brushing
that bee had fucked him over
|
|
| Now Prat's Entertainment. |
[13 Dec 2004|05:12pm] |
|
|
|
[13 Dec 2004|05:14pm] |
Looks like I may be yawning around big shops on my own on Wednesday. David is going to Ramsgate instead with his wife. And I most certainly am not, being as it is about as good for shopping as a desert is for building an igloo.
Right then, I may either fucking go there on my fat little lonesome, or with whoever else wants to go. Anyone? If nobody does i'll wait until a later date. Still got three weeks to panic.
|
|
|
[13 Dec 2004|06:15pm] |
You are a Siamese! You are fun-loving, playful,
energetic, talkative, and exotic. You are the
center of attention and you love every minute
of it.
What breed of cat are you?
brought to you by Quizilla
|
|
|
[13 Dec 2004|06:21pm] |
I'm thinking of approaching my mother's nit picking attitude to everything hygenic with blatant and petulant disreguard. For instance, she just chastised my father for putting a cup of tea on the arm of the chair, thus increasing chance of staining the little white cloth, and spillage onto floor.
Things that i'd never do in a sane state come creeping into my head; walking around absently cuffing mugs off tables and chairs, onto floor, whatever the content...eating bags of crisps and upon finishing simply throwing the bag harshly and abruptly at the new carpet, scattering the small crumbs as it hits...walking through the room with a mug of tea...shaking around like Dick Van Dyke dancing on that cunting rooftop.
Spitting across the room. Eating a sandwich and walking around without plate letting bits fall. Actually hurling disused wrappers at Mould herself. Walking around blowing on a bugle whilst trampling big clumps of mud from the fields into every single surface.
That'll learn her punctilliously anal arse.
|
|
|
[13 Dec 2004|07:48pm] |
Right, i'm getting the hell out of here now, so gaze at your memories and wonder what went wrong. Alight?
Later, yer political allegories.
x
|
|