Because he can
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January 31, 2007
Macaroni, noun
1. Small, tubular pasta prepared from wheat flour.
2. An English dandy of the 18th century who affected continental mannerisms, clothes, etc.
"Can I just say, I really admire the way you wear that hat at such a jaunty angle?" said Zeds.
"Cheers," said Nipper, completely missing the point.
January 30, 2007
Sympathy I demand not at all.
But.
There is at the same time an urgent desire in these here troubled parts for deep, hot, thick, rich, flavoursome and lazily-ladelled bowls of homemade chicken soup (with a squeeze of lemon, and perhaps a couple of chopped up chillis, and maybe a handful of coriander, too), a plethora of Harold Lloyd movies, some Whizzer and Chips annuals, an Alfred Hitcock "Young Detectives" novel, some lemon bon bons - lemon bon bons! in a paper bag! from "the shop"! - some hot Ribena (wrong, on many, many levels, but still essential at such times), that video from the shops your mum won't let you have but buys in that Desperate Mum Need to see happy cheer on her offspring's face, chips from the chippy with loads of salt and vinegar (that she goes to get and I can't actually eat, but still), a hot water bottle, some of those fake rabbit fur slippers you buy in Majorca, an episode of The Smurfs, some Dinosaur Chews, childblains on my feet from leaving them bare on the radiator too long (absolute bollocks from my mother which I briefly fell for), an omelette, some more hot Ribena, and a chance to stay up late because I'm off school again tomorrow (meaning I won't get to stay up, of course, because I'm "ill".)
I wouldn't mind, either, but it's not as though I haven't been looking after myself.
Take the weekend, for instance. I had
Much less than the Recommended five portions of fruit every day
Much more than the Recommended units of alcohol
Staggering amounts of Fine single malt to slope me off to sleep
Criminally insane levels of Gentle eight-year-old Bacardi, served in tureens tiny little glasses.
And a mental wrestle of gargantuan proportions with The Bad, Mad, Screaming Monkeys Of This Parish.
My kidneys ache, my back hurts, my nose is dripping, I haven't had a shave and I still need to do a pile of washing at least the size of Mount Etna (but slightly more pungent).
In other news, what time does the bastard curry house open? I'm starving...
January 30, 2007
Numbles, noun
Edible deer innards
"You little beady-eyed bastard!" declared Zeds, looking up from the dictionary. "I always thought that was a term of endearment!"
"Er, excuse me," coughed the buzzard. "To me, it is."
January 29, 2007
Yaw, verb
Of a ship: to deviate erratically from a course (as when struck by a heavy sea); especially : to move from side to side
Of an airplane, spacecraft, or projectile : to turn by angular motion about the vertical axis
"Are you drunk again?" asked Zeds, when Nipper crashed into the lamp-post.
January 26, 2007
Pageism, noun
Masochism fantasy of a man imagining himself as servant to a beautiful woman
"Ahem," said Nipper.
"Indeed," said Zeds.
January 25, 2007
Imagine staggering around in the pitch black with your arms outstretched trying to find a wall or a door or a chair or a table but never making any contact.
You move faster and faster because surely sooner or later you'll hit something. You have to. Nothing is that vast and empty and dark and endless.
Is it?
But that something to hold on to just isn't there.
And because you're moving faster, searching and scrambling and blindly grasping thin, black air, your step is less secure.
All you can hear is the amplified noise you are making as your feet slap haphazardly in this mysterious, dark place.
And then the floor disappears, too.
It doesn't drop away. Doesn't crumble. Doesn't incline away in the gloom. It's just gone.
But you're not falling.
And you're not floating.
You're just there, suspended, somehow, with nothing to hold on to, to steady yourself, to give you that time to let you get your bearings.
And then suddenly there's a howling, haunting rush of noise shrieking around you, blowing your hair at all angles and making your ears feel like they'll bleed.
But there is no distinctive noise within this noise: It's as though roaring static is galloping through your veins.
Goosebumps prickle upon your arms and the moisture from your mouth departs quickly for your sweat glands.
And as suddenly as the noise has woken and jangled and teased your every nerve, it's gone - replaced, now, by a looming, yawning, pitch black cloak of silence.
And you're still in the dark.
Still in the air.
Still reaching for something to guide you.
And then you realise:
You still have no idea where you are.
You still feel scared about wherever that is.
But you still want to be there anyway.
January 25, 2007
That's it, really.
With some fat butcher's sausages. And squished up fried mushrooms. And bursting plum tomatoes. And buttery toast (which I don't even like, as a rule). And big sploshes of tangy Lea and Perrins Worcestershire Sauce. And a scattering of salt. And then tonnes of fiery white pepper over the lot of it.
Then I'd be happy.
Instead, though, it's likely to be Devil's Turds Wheat Crunchies or Deep Fried Roadkill beef "flava" Discos from the vending machine.
Which won't make me happy.
In other news, is it lunchtime yet?
January 26, 2007
Opsablepsia, noun
Not looking into another's eyes
"Why not?" asked Nipper. "Eh?"
"Because they're too bloody beady, that's why," said Zeds.
January 25, 2007
Why do they do that?
Ring?
Say hi?
Say... other stuff?
Worse - why do they do that when I'm in the middle at the end of an high-powered executive lunch?
I'm talking much-lamented ex's here.
From last year.
You know - broken face-related, and all that.
Balls.
More Bacardi. And phone off.
January 25, 2007
I went out at 2pm for "a bite to eat".
And, can I just say, I thoroughly enjoyed the deliciously crunchy lumps of ice I've just had in an endless stream of Bacardi and cokes.
My friend work contact Mike and I then decided that this work lark is, frankly, overrated.
So we've decided it'll wait until tomorrow before we do any more.
And are currently working our way through the impossible amount of both Bacardi and Captain Morgan's he rather helpfully keeps at his bar shop.
So?
It's not like we're brain surgeons, is it?
Hic.
January 25, 2007
Refocillate, verb
To warm into life again; revive
"I really don't like the way your mind is working with this one," scolded Zeds.
"Me neither," agreed Nipper, ruefully.
So instead they whistled the same cheery upbeat tune, a bit like a barber shop quartet would sound if they whistled instead of singing, there was only two of them instead of four, with neither of them wearing straw boaters, and one of them was a talking buzzard wearing dirty velvet pantaloons.
So perhaps not anything like them at all, then.
January 24, 2007
Unexpected interest rate rises last month caught the country by surprise, apparently - including those in the (Fancy London Town) City - but if you're hoping for a decent pay rise this year to offset your already extortionate extra mortgage payments, I'm afraid it's a case of what my old grandmother used to say*, and that is: Woe betide you, by Jove and by Jimminey.
According to Mervyn King, a nice, cuddly bloke who happens to be the Governor of the Bank of England (or probably Knees Aaapp Guv'nor, actually, because he is after all a man-of-the-people geezer who likes a pie, a pint and a few tabs - you know, like most taxpayers in the country who keep the wheels turning nicely (apart from striking train drivers and conductors, obviously, the absolute rotten cunts)) that's the last thing you're going to get.
Now, why would that be, my financially sound, cash-rich, money-barned, bottomless-pitted chums?
"All of us," explains Merv - that's what we call him dahn The Fishmonger's Grinder, you know - "on the shopfloor" - well, he has been there, after all, wandering around Harrods buying Lear jets for his children with lesser-known speaking porpoises to pilot the fucking things - "in the boardroom" - we'll come back to that - "or in the public sector" - which, technically, he is, so Gawd bless yer leaking urchin boots, sir, with a doff of my flea-ridden cap - "are coming to terms with the fact that those higher costs imply a temporary, but only temporary, slowing in the growth of our real take-home pay."
So, says "Big" Merv, this year, along with your extra mortgage payments and higher bills - Oh! Almost forgot! The experts now predict another two interest rate rises by the summer! The first likely to be next month! Hurrah! - you should also be happy - nay, content - to settle for below-inflation pay rises.
Basically, they want you to spend less (except on taxes, stupid, which of course will rise (they rather cleverly call this complicated process "interest rate rises")), so that the economy slows down and our overall economy can, um, benefit.
Not your economy, mind - you know, the one in your house.
No, just, well, big business with all its tax breaks and off shore bank accounts ours.
Marvellous Merv has stepped up to the crease on this, though.
Gleaming Pillar Of Community Goodness (Order Of The Gawd Bless Yer Ma'am Street Party) that he is, he's only gone and accepted a below-inflation payrise himself, hasn't he?
Gor blimey Guv'nor, I say. You ahhhhl softeee.
His mere extra 2.5% a year means he's only on £283,563 a year.
Rahhhl ahhht the bahhhhrelll...!
* In other news, my grandmother never said that. Ever.
January 24, 2007
January 24, 2007
Onolatry, noun
Ass worship
"You bloody love that donkey, don't you?" glared Nipper.
"No, of course not," said Zeds, shiftily.
January 23, 2007
So, tomorrow:
1. Pay phone bill still haven't paid.
2. Pick up friend's power unit for laptop.
3. Fetch laptop from brother's house.
4. Start the newspaper working week properly for a change.
5. Haircut. If only a really little one.
6. Lunch. Lunch!
7. Which means.
8. I can write another day off then.
9. But probably literally, so no change there then.
January 23, 2007
...possibly sounds a bit rude, I know, but I don't care.
Cash in pocket.
Curry house at my mercy.
Vino aplenty just waiting to be glugged.
Bastard thing is, though, is that the mate with whom I'm scoffing this very eve doesn't know my phone is still on incoming only.
So I'm sat here in my mate's shop getting sloshed, feeling slightly light-headed from chocolate limes overload starvation and booze, and dreaming, salivating, slobbering and gibbering with thoughts of this magnificently mean mutha:
Lyndzzz, you have a lot to answer for...
January 23, 2006
Well, she started it with all that curry malarkey...
I'm currently crunching my way through a large bag of these.
Not had them for years and I must say - mm-mmmmmm....
January 23, 2007
Phagomania, noun
Insanely hungry
"Not too much butter on my toast," groaned Nipper. "I don't want the bacon slipping off."
January 22, 2007
Doomed
Doomed, I tell yer!
| What type of person do you attract? Your Result: You attract Yuppies!
You attract the very well-dressed, job oriented type of people. They usually have their finances together, are 'middle of the road' on most topics, generally happy with the 'main-stream' of things. If it is stability you are after, these are good people to attract, if you seek adventure, it may be time for an overhaul. |
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| You attract unstable people! |
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| You attract models! |
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| You attract geeks! |
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| You attract artsy people! |
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| You attract rednecks! |
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| What type of person do you attract? Quizzes for MySpace |
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January 22, 2007
"Don't," said the nurse, a large, convivial bloke called Simon Neil, who didn't actually waggle his finger at me but pretty much should have done, "go wrestling with Hell's Angels anymore. Okay?"
Good point, really. And well presented.
I arrived at the Accident and Emergency department of our local hospital sometime around 9pm last night.
The paramedics, called out to my brother's home because we were all fairly convinced I was dying, and dying quickly, had already performed an ECG check.
They were worried I was having a heart attack. So was I, actually.
We'd eaten plump roast chicken, spicy potato wedges and fresh tossed salad - washed down with ludicrous amounts of red wine that just didn't stop coming.
I was visiting because of yet more Dunn Family Shenanigans that I can't go into here, but that I am extraordinarily relieved turned out to be fine(ish) in the end (sorry to be so cryptic, but there you go).
And all was well. The fire was alight, the wine was aplenty, Mark and Karen were in good form, and Mojo was doing what Mojo always does when a roast dinner has made an appearance in the household - sleeping the Sleep Of The Damned in front of the flames, with his big floppy ears draped untidly over his eyes.
And then my chest caved in.
My war wounds from the previous Friday's wrestling with a 17-stone biker included what felt like a broken sternum - that bone in the middle of your chest that all your ribs are attached too.
When an attack of the hiccups came on last night - yes, I know - it felt like someone had taken a hatchet saw to my ribcage. From the inside.
I couldn't breathe.
I was being stabbed.
My insides lurched and racked with every cough.
I was bent double in agony. Couldn't talk. Couldn't drink water.
So they called an ambulance.
When I get to hospital, it's pants off time and a hypodermic needle with a powerful painkiller goes plunging into my left thigh.
The pain eases fairly quickly and the hiccups are gone. But my chest feels like something or someone has been punching it on the outside and slowly tearing it from the bone on the inside.
I'm X-Rayed.
When the picture comes back, there is a large, dull shadow covering the lower quarter of my left lung.
"It's not cancer," they say. "It's not dark enough."
Oh, well, that's okay then.
Now I'm waiting for the doctor.
The nurses are laughing with me.
Pretty cheerful, I think, considering I'm about to be told I have an advanced inoperable tumour in my lung and just minutes to live.
The doctor arrives. A pretty girl in a green operating theatre outfit.
She's smiling, too.
"Your ECG came back fine," she said, the grin broadening.
"And your lungs are clear, too," she adds, her whole face a smirk.
"Eh?" I say. "What about that shadow?"
"Oh that," she says. "That's gas."
"You mean I... just... needed... to fart?"
"Well, now you put it like that..."
January 22, 2007
Ichthyolatry, noun
The worship of fish
"You're a pervert," said Zeds.
"So?" replied Nipper.
January 20, 2007
"I don't care," said my friend, Mike, with what can only be described as a huge shit-eating grin all over his face. "You're having tequila."
Tequila - wrenched, I'm fairly sure, from the bodies of long-dead petty thieves, mixed with stale cat urine and stirred with mongrels' cocks.
It is the drink of the damned: Truly, a beverage of such low, vile standard, of revolting taste and smell.
It is, in fact, not a drink: It is a vessel of the most inhumane torture (oxymoron, but sod you).
It came in a Collins - half a pint of dog piss and orange.
We drank two.
Quickly.
Less then twenty minutes.
He locked his shop.
Traversed a s
