| Had a great dream last night.... |
[22 Dec 2004|09:22am] |
I'll get it out of the way before I talk about the nightmare that was last night. Was like a film...Joe Pesci becomes manager of a down and out small zoo, in which that woman out of Gremlins, Rick Moranis, and I all work at. He shakes them up in a kind of milatiristic, doesn't quite know what he's doing kind of a way, but with decent intent and results. During lunch break my character meets Sue, a member of the "mile high club" which is..get this...a fucking theatre group for people over 7ft tall. No shitting. Even had a picture of it, with two empty seats in the audience. Good attendance.
Okay, that was it. Next up, last night. Chronologically illogical statement for ya there.
|
|
|
[22 Dec 2004|09:29am] |
Well, I was riotously enjoying last night up until my friends seemed to fuck off without telling me we were leaving (Although in my wankered state I probably simply didn't notice, and neither did they, ALSO being blasted), walking to the station, trying to phone my father and shouting as a fucking coin got stuck in the slot...smashing the reciever against the cold metal call box. I'm not proud of this, but in my state I was simply out of options, and a phone kiosk seems as good as any place to relieve irritation. I wept like a fucking child until I realised there were three other units there and I remembered the number. Spent the car ride home telling my father what a great dad he was. Babbled utterly incoherently whilst he humoured me.
At any rate, the horrors of this out of the way, it was pretty good up until that point. I met a dark coated Graham at the New Inn and we drifted through chilled air to Morecombe's place, where I waited for him to convince Neal to let him stay. The price: A bottle of vodka a week.
Then, to Dave's and finally to spontaneously pick up Stuart and sit in his living room with cups of tea, talking about how funny it would be if we opened all the presents in his house, in front of his mum's face. Then scattered the pinecones. Then took the tv.
And the dvd/video hybrid.
Anyway...a ride on the train next and a git checking tickets. Return? I don't know why we bothered, we never did. Got to Ramsgate, I danced around the hall for a while, whilst Graham panicked about the Walrus of Love (Joe) not being there on time. He picked up phones and stabbed buttons, whilst Stuart leaned on a chair and I ran around shouting "nobody here! Drink some beer! Lots of space here!"
The walrus finally arrived, and the four of us amble down to the Belgian Bar...three pints of DOGBOLTER please....no, that's what we said. And a whisky and coke.
The walrus also had a small coke. I assume this was "preperation". We got RIOTOUSLY drunk between us...slinging back the 'bolter like it was cold chocolatey coffee, I putting a coaster through the crack in a table, saying "ooh look...coaster...put it through there...and there's another one under the table....put it through there...another one...put it through there..", walrus singing Labyrinth tunes, Graham wrestling me to the ground, me dragging him off his chair also...and a fucking jazz pianist called Richard, playing "All along the watchtower" with Graham and I singing very loudly next to him, like the goddamned Crane brothers or something.
And...well....it was a very good night up until leaving. I have NO idea where they went. I think my reactions would have been rather slow by that point. It's always possible they were actually still there and I simply got up and left.
Well, there you go.
|
|
|
[22 Dec 2004|09:44am] |
You see, that is why I dlislike the Belgian Bar nights. Not for the actual place; it's great...a real arty seaside drinkin' 'ole, with laughter and head shaking and singing.
No, it's the end of the night, when one is trying to get home...in an hour it's possible to get drunker than it is in an evening, or even a day in a milder place. I certainly do not know how I got to the station, let alone type numbers in and bleat incoherently to my dad, through tears, anger, and clouds of alcohol.
Jesus. It scares me, frankly. And i'm not doing it again. Until the new year at least.
|
|
| It's not enough clever, unless you use it.... |
[22 Dec 2004|09:50am] |
Okay, simple matters today. Hopefully all traces of home brewed ale that could get the universe drunk and on it's knees will have gone out of my system by the time I have my appointment with the doctor. I'm quite proud of myself, I only took a year to do it. But I did.
I have my heart and legs and arms to get seen. I'm hoping to fool him comically with fake ones, first. Any forthcoming jokes about the veracity of my heart will be stamped upon like bracken....
Yeergh. I need to go back to bed. I'm out at four, so i've got plenty of time to regain my strength, though one would be forgiven for thinking that this stuff leaves in such a short time...I almost feel drunk now, though that's probably just extreme fatigue.
|
|
| "Oh I nicked this from Beanie, yeah you know me...." |
[22 Dec 2004|10:05am] |
1. WHAT IS YOUR IDEA OF TRUE HAPPINESS?
Being with one I love, staring out across mountains, eating grapes from mouthes, casting a snowball onto the slopes, watching it become an avalance....crushing skiiers...
You might want to forget that last bit.
2. DO YOU BELIEVE IN GOD? IF SO, HOW DO YOU PERCEIVE HIM/HER/IT? IF NOT, WHY DON'T YOU BELIEVE?
Not in any real sense or organised or other. But I do believe there is something. I'm rooting for a cross between Bob Geldof and a big bag of crips.
3. FAVORITE COLOR IN YOUR BIG BOX OF CRAYONS?
Any. I'd only end up chewing them in half, paper and all.
4. WHAT WAS THE MOST HURTFUL THING ANYONE HAS EVER SAID TO YOU?
Probably my textiles teacher calling me "wet". The connotations were that because I was shy I was also weak willed and lesser. It affected me theron in, despite my judgement of her now being that she was an old cunt.
5. OKAY, NOW THAT WE'VE COVERED THAT, WHAT'S THE NICEST THING ANYONE'S EVER SAID TO YOU? WHO SAID IT?
That I was amazing. You can probably guess who it was.
6. IF YOU WERE SUDDENLY PUT IN CHARGE OF THE WORLD, WHAT WOULD BE THE FIRST THING YOU'D CHANGE?
Serious answer: Eradicate all traces of genocidal maniacs. Yes, that means you, Mugabe. Humourous answer: I'd make cakes seargents.
7. COTTON OR RAYON?
Fuck knows....cotton..
8. PEN OR PENCIL? IF YOU CHOSE PEN, WHAT COLOR PEN (very important)?
Pencil. then I can rub out swearing if the teacher is coming.
9. LONGEST SPAN OF TIME YOU'VE GONE WITHOUT SEX?
Ha HA ha. Ask Beanie.
10. FAVORITE KIND OF ETHNIC FOOD?
Chinese, I suppose.
11. EVER HAD A PARANORMAL EXPERIENCE? EXPLAIN BELOW:
Yeah, when Des had flour on his face. He looked like a ghost. A really angry one, with eyeballs standing out like glowing turds.
12. NICEST VACATION YOU EVER TOOK? WHY WAS IT SO DAMN NICE? WILL YOU TAKE ME WITH YOU NEXT TIME YOU GO?
Venice, Italy. No, I will not. I don't know you..it'd be a comedy nightmare, but nothing more.
13. EVER BREAK A BONE? IF SO, WHICH ONE?
Not a single one. Yet.
14. WHAT IS YOUR HAPPIEST CHILDHOOD MEMORY?
Seeing my mother weeping over an argument about a small cricket bat and a foam ball. Oh, not really. That's just the second best. I think probably one of our family holidays when we had a decent crack at being a proper group of close relatives.
15. WHO WAS/IS YOUR FAVORITE RELATIVE? WHY?
Bolby. Sister made by the gods.
16. IF YOU WERE TRAPPED ON A DESERT ISLAND WITH NO HOPE OF RESCUE WHATSOEVER, WOULD YOU TRY TO SURVIVE AND LIVE OUT THE REST OF YOUR DAYS COMPLETELY ALONE OR WOULD YOU GIVE UP AND LET YOURSELF DIE BECAUSE, WELL, WHAT'S THE POINT?
I'd probably take a phone to smash in frustration, and cry a lot.
17. IF YOU COULD CHOOSE TO BE WORLD-FAMOUS FOR JUST ONE THING, WHAT WOULD IT BE?
Writing.
18. WHAT IS THE MOST RECENT DREAM YOU'VE HAD THAT YOU CAN REMEMBER?
A crazy comedy featuring midget actor Joe Pesci, a run down zoo, a theatre for lanky people, and a wombat licking my groin.
19. IF YOU ALL OF A SUDDEN POSSESSED THE ABILITY TO READ A PERSON'S MIND WITH THE STIPULATION THAT YOU COULD ONLY CHOOSE ONE PERSON'S MIND TO READ, WHOSE WOULD IT BE?
Yours. Then I could find out why you write in excruciating capitals all the time.
20. CAN YOU DO ANY STUPID HUMAN TRICKS?
Yes, fill out quizzes without blinking an eyelid.
|
|
| Des is the crust of fear |
[22 Dec 2004|10:34am] |
Merry Christmas, Blurty!
|
|
| It's all over bard the shouting. |
[22 Dec 2004|10:45am] |
Your Dominant Intelligence is Linguistic Intelligence |
You are excellent with words and language. You explain yourself well.
An elegant speaker, you can converse well with anyone on the fly.
You are also good at remembering information and convicing someone of your point of view.
A master of creative phrasing and unique words, you enjoy expanding your vocabulary.
You would make a fantastic poet, journalist, writer, teacher, lawyer, politician, or translator.
|
|
|
|
[22 Dec 2004|12:27pm] |
I'm going to bed for a while. Not feeling well, and just want to sleep off the horrors of last night. Surgery appointment at four...
I'm worried they'll find something; my heart was hurting again last night...and not in a metaphorical sense.
Bye for now.
|
|
|
[22 Dec 2004|12:59pm] |
Was thinking of putting a counter on this. I have a nakedly pompous curiosity in finding out who reads this, and how often. I'm more intrigued than anything, as to who keeps coming back to read the demented shit I put out.
However, I cannot find a decent one...that is...one that won't pick up me proof reading and huffing as I refresh a page that isn't loading.
Boo. Let's have a look around.
|
|
|
[22 Dec 2004|02:16pm] |
|
Oh for fuck's sakes...I finally get the counter working and I can't load the sodding page to look at it. Right folks, bear in mind that this is a unique access counter, meaning it shows only visitors that access after the passage of an hour. So it would count only once the access of a person reading it several times in sixty minutes. The thing was counting number of pageloads, but that's only really going to show me irritatedly reloading the cunting page, trying to get a BLOODY UPDATE DONE.
|
|
|
[22 Dec 2004|02:20pm] |
|
You know, that's taken a good hour of my time to set up...I have to go in an hour and a half...will have a quick nap. Then a shower, then out. Also have to try and explain to my respective friends exactly why I left last night. I don't even know!
|
|
|
[22 Dec 2004|04:16pm] |
Well, i'm back from the quacks.....apparently (At least as far as I could glean) my blood pressure is normal, and the chest pains are probably as a result of the way my breast bone is formed. It dips in and could be the reason for my discomfort. I'm having an ECG on....Christmas Eve.
Wonderful. Merry Cunting Xmas.
|
|
| 18 fucking people. |
[22 Dec 2004|05:22pm] |
Right, I am a whore, clearly. A bitch to the welcomed voyeur. And you are, sir. Thank you for coming, good lady. A drink? I have piss or cola. It is my own brand.
Right, who comes back? That will not be apparent until the next day or two. Surely you lot fuck off for food or something. This thing counts only every hour, man.
|
|
| Open your fucking presents, kids. |
[22 Dec 2004|05:52pm] |
Ways to make Christmas more enjoyable. This weeks tip is to reveal shocking and damaging secrets to each other through the flippancy of gift giving. It's funnier if it's not MEANT to be spiteful.
Imagine gran opening a gift to find a box, empty but for a piece of paper saying "I've lied to you all my life, gran. All your money is now lost to the gambling community"
Or bless your child this year by revealing they were adopted, as they tear eagerly at shining fucking paper...see their face as the words are revealed. You could even inculde the results of a blood test.
Ah, Christmas.
|
|
|
[22 Dec 2004|06:49pm] |
The sickly dark on Minster at night awaits, and the final run in before Christmas begins tomorrow. Have one more night off beforehand, of a slightly more serene drinking variety. Hopefully there will be people there to stare at. I'm sure the Bell's returning fat nazi will also be about, the hateful Quinn.
Fucking cunt. The bar needs a spit, it already has something to roast on it. He makes the pig Napolean out of Orwell's Animal Farm look like a slender philantropist.
Bye then.
|
|