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[27 Nov 2006|12:19am] |
Nothing wrong with drinking on a Sunday night. That's why I do it. It is why I drink on a Sunday. Because there's little else to do in Minster on a Sunday night, aside picking fluff out of your crevices, or watching the South Bank Show. Perhaps watching a SBS special in which prostitutes pick fluff out of their vaginas would be entertaining, but so far, no go.
So I spent this night getting fully boozed up with the Bell chums. Quite a good turnout, really. I'm utterly buzzed.
And we turn to Monday. Work day, class night. I scatter my line outside this village and make my little trip to the city. I wonder what will happen this week. My work is okay, and i'll read it out. If I get a word or too with Missy D, so be it. Dear, sweet cutie that she is. I wonder what the hell she thinks of me.
Like I always say, we'll see.
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| Tomorrow's Frasier |
[27 Nov 2006|12:47am] |
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Frasier punches a stamp. Niles shags a clown. Daphne bruises an apple. Martin strangles himself with a belt. Roz plucks a chicken and fucks a shoe tree. Bulldog drills a hole in his own forehead and prods a dishcloth through it.
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[27 Nov 2006|12:52am] |
So, Take That are back. And they're number one. Did I miss out ten years when I wasn't watching? Did I ever get a job? Did I ever go to London? Did I start this diary?
Did Robbie Williams leave and turn into one of the biggest twats ever to drag his shitting arse all over pop culture?
Where did ten years go?
I looked at Take That on the BBC website, and the chilling reminder is that Take That now look as old as I am. And that's not good. And the biggest kick in the scrotum is that their music is now exactly the same kind of psuedo rock slop it always was, but about fifteen times slower.
Please, god, help us all. I'll even blow you off if you delete TT from my head and the charts, you omniscient cunt.
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[27 Nov 2006|01:04am] |
Victoria, you're a hot bastard. Welcome to my letter, which you are reading. It's me, Phylly, your great wife...er..husband...er...dog. I love you, Vicmeister, I hope you know that. Look at your face. I see that on your show you hide your true image behind that naughty dog teacher you present yourself as, and you're probably not really that angry or stern. Bet I could melt your frosty ardour with my cane of fire, or better still I could let you touch my filthy penis. It's not a dog's, it's a man's, Victoria, and it's choc full of boy juice for you to suck out like an ice cream cone. Go on, i'll let you scratch it and pet it until it screams love.
Better still, i'll wear a dog's collar with my name on it. When you find me you'll know where I live, so you can take me home and roll me over on my belly. I'll lick you clean, Viccy. I'll lick you so fucking clean you won't be able to stand.. So...so clean.
Yours, Phylly.
P.S.
I'm not really a dog. I'm just a thirty year old pervert who like dangling my bollocks in public and sniffing arses.
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[27 Nov 2006|04:27pm] |
How do you make eyes at an eighteen year old? I'm thirty for god's sake, I can't just slip her a note. Whitters would read it.
"Dear eighteen year old. I like u vr mch. Pls strk my har. Luv Phl boy"
He'd pick out the bones in that one and laugh at me with his bearded face. School tonight, and i've been conked out since I got home. Astonishing, as we did precisely no meals at all. There was however a lot of cleaning. And some chat at the bar with Ian, who was the only non working person in the pub until three.
As I said, given the cleaning and the pint of Guiness I drank, I was wacked out when I got home. I just collapsed. One nice thing about being thirty is it's so easy to just lie down and deflate like an old banana. I can't be fucked to edit my work, i'll take it as is. It's not brilliant but it's all i'm going to bother doing...I just couldn't get into this one. Well, I could but with those silly competition words it ruined the whole flow.
Some nice sentences in it, little else. You can't see it, by the way...it's all been said so many times before to put here.
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