Because he can
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June 30, 2007
Pococurante, adj
Indifferent, nonchalant
"I'm sure that's your missus in the toilet," said Nipper. "And I'm fairly sure she's not alone."
"Ah," said Zeds, dismissively. "Whatever."
June 30, 2007
"It must have been a passion moment," she said.
"I know," I said. "And I'm really sorry."
***
Knock.
Knock knock.
"Um, hang on," she said.
Press.
Flush.
Cur-lunk.
"Just a moment."
***
*whispers*
[Go on then. Go out]
[WHAT? ME?]
[Well, yeah]
{SERIOUSLY?]
[Um, yeah. And now. She IS waiting, you know.]
[YOU FUCKING COWARD!]
[So?]
[I'LL KILL YOU - YOU DO KNOW THAT, DON'T YOU?]
[Whatever, run along. There's a good girl.....]
***
"I was worried you'd left your stuff behind," said the bar owner, after she'd caught us shagging in the toilets.
"No," said Row. "We're fine. And now we're going."
***
"It happens," said the bar owner. "Please come back. And tell Row to come back, too. God, we all live once."
* THERE is the slightest chance that young RTB might - might - have her own version of events here.
June 29, 2007
Two of them, drawn in green felt tip, with purple circles on their wings, orange smiley faces, a couple of green clouds, a massive, yellow sun with a smile, and lots of furiously scratched grass.
And in the middle of it, she writes: "Amy and Justin playing in the sun. I love you from Amy XXX."
She gave it to me twenty minutes ago.
It makes someone small feel quite enormous, frankly.
June 29, 2007
Ataraxia, noun
A state of freedom from disturbance of mind
"But I thought that was just called sleep?" said Nipper.
"Yes, well, you would," said Zeds.
June 28, 2007
Twelve years old.
And dead.
That's why we jump out of planes.
That's Amy and Amanda.
I weep.
June 28, 2007
A LOTTERY winner who did not realise he had scooped £22million was told his ticket was worthless.
He took it to be checked at the kiosk where he bought it but the owners told him he was out of luck.
The man walked off, leaving the ticket. Later someone else used it to claim the fortune.
But lottery officials became suspicious and launched a probe.
They discovered millions had been paid into the bank accounts of the couple who own the kiosk.
Yesterday three people were being held over the alleged May 11 scam involving Euro Millions, played by thousands in the UK and abroad.
Investigators tracked down the real winner and told him he was rich, triggering a mild heart attack. He was recovering last night.
Police said: "He is now doing fine and is very happy with his prize."
They found him through records of regular customers at the kiosk.
Charges have been brought against a man and a couple in their 50s who run have run the news and tobacco stall in Paris for 10 years.
June 28, 2007
Women, eh?
They know how to make you cry.
But in fairness to Amanda, I'd never even met her.
No one else will now, either.
Amanda died in the last 24 hours for the very reason we're trying to raise money.
She never even had the chance to speak.
Help me, hey?
And bless her x
June 28, 2007
1. When in doubt... drink. A lot. But don't call at your brother's house at 1am. Not clever.
2 - The most Tagalicious blogger is... probably me, I reckon, looking at some of the (admittedly thoroughly deserved) vitriol on there. But hey.
3 - Given half a chance, I would... reverse ten years and become the person I should have been.
4 - I'd rather be... Smith's Crisps.
5 - Who knew that... it would end up like this?
Tagging Eggers, Emsbabee, Essex Boy, and anyone else beginning with an E.
June 28, 2007
So.
You stagger walk into a restaurant in Liverpool, a restaurant already established but having a relaunch to promote its bar area.
You know the owner. He's a friend.
You know half of the people in there. After all, over the years, you've made acquaintances.
Still, you do an excellent job of ignoring most of them.
Ever the fine friend, of course.
And you sort of know the other half - PR types, hangers on, turn-up-to-the-opening-of-anything types.
Anyhoo.
Free Brahma Beers.
Free - and somewhat endless - Martini glasses chugged full of damn fine Caipirinhas, of which your ever loyal correspondent tucked himself into in a hearty manner.
There was food, too, apparently, but hey, this is me, remember?
And then there was the girl doing the PR who I've never met before in my life.
And amidst the swirl of ludicrously strong cocktails, and little shots of red stuff that tasted a bit like Aftershock but should, in fact, be called Tomorrowshock, because believe me, that's what it is - Right. Bastard. Now - and gloriously cool live samba, she leaned into me, and spoke.
"I've been reading your blog," she said. "That stuff about Neil was hilarious."
And to think - up until that point I'd actually been taking myself seriously...
June 28, 2007
Compossible, adj
Compatible; possible along with something else
"So, hang on, let me get this straight, you woke up, thought it was evening, found it was morning, actually ironed a shirt, went out, met old colleagues, met current colleagues, met friends, drank lots, drank some more, drank a bit more than that, caballed cocktails, garnered shorts, snatched beers, refused the free steak, had two mouthfuls of chocolate mousse, made an absolute arse of yourself with the Brazilian barmaid, took your mate home - you think - and then woke your brother up at some godforsaken time of the morning and asked, meekly, if you could go to bed now because you were leathered?" squawked the enigma that is Nipper, somewhat astounded.
"Um, yes," said Zeds, whose eyebrows were hidden by the overhang of a very large ice bag.
"Tell me," said the buzzard. "How do you do that and do what you do?"
"Believe me," said the hungover one. "It's possible."
June 26, 2007
God, she was great.
All night - the most fantastic, cherubic, innocent smiling smunch of loveliness.
And, even better, just the same in the morning.
Teeth, smiles, saying my name.
Okay, she's only nearly two.
But she's my goddaughter.
Her name is Emily.
And I just can't wait to watch her grow.
June 27, 2007
Moiety, noun
A half; a portion
"Another two halves, please, barman," said Zeds.
"Same for me," said Nipper.
"And hurry the fuck up, moiety," added Zeds, who was quite clearly drunk already.
June 26, 2007
"Remember those Wimbledon tickets?" said my tennis-connected chum, mini-seconds ago.
"Yes," I eeked, like a mouse slowly being squeezed to death beneath a huge stinking lump of his favourite cheese.
"I've got them."
"Really!?"
"Yes! How brilliant!"
"Jesus! Which game!"
"Ladies' finals!"
"You mean...."
[Drifts off to Lala land]
"Yes!"
"So...-"
"So, I'm afraid it's just me and my partner, love. He's working in this country after all. And he does like strawberries."
"But. What. About. Maria?"
"I don't know, love. But it sounds like it might make a good song."
June 26, 2007
In 1987, myself and a certain blogger of this parish were working on a certain local paper in a certain local place.
"BOOMTOWN!" was the headline, to greet the highly unpopular news that an oil rig was about to appear in an untouched bay of many thousand millennium, at Hoylake, Wirral.
The story behind the ridiculous, but effective, headline - which came courtesy of a pumped up, easily-led, and needless to say voted-in puppet on the local authority - was that, with the introduction of this oil rig, our local area would be turned into a sort of new Aberdeen: Awash with oil money that would filter down to one and all (sic).
Twenty years on, not a single penny of the billions has filtered down to a local level.
Not one.
Or at least, not to a person without a vested interest, anyway.
Like those who actually live here (sic).
The council would argue otherwise, of course. And they would - it's their job to do so.
But show me a new hotel, for the riggers, for instance.
None.
If anything, we've lost five.
Show me new leisure facilities.
None.
Though we are closing some down. Or closing them at weekends. For efficiency.
"Don't worry!" declare the latest new developers. "We're going to build snow domes, and Disneyland, and Sun City, and the Empire State Building, and the Petronas Tower, and a Sky Dome, and The World's Biggest Cheese - so, see, can't you believe us now? You fools? We're so awash with cash we can fool you forever!"
All publicly paid-for idiots collectively: "Coooooooooo...... And you would like to put you head between them and go blubble, blubble, blubble?"
And the latest ruination of our once fine peninsula is a wind farm so damn ugly it'll make that dwindling group of people who actually have money - the people who will have to look at it - move away.
And so puny is this "farm" that against the crap being pumped out of the USA, India and China, it is the environmentally combative equivalent of flicking an elastic band at an incoming meteorite, crossing your fingers and counting to ten.
Well done, you jackasses.
Now - back into those oil rig files, and let's see who said what, eh?...............
June 26, 2007
From "This Much I Know" in The Observer Magazine on Sunday.
"I ate a cat, not knowingly. I ordered rabbit at a posh restaurant. Halfway through I hit a bone and thought to myself, 'This is not right.' I checked another bone that, for a rabbit, shouldn't be there, and it was. I realised we were eating a cat, beautifully seasoned, tender and moist. The chef must have been fooled by the guy who sold him the meat. I didn't complain, however, as it would have been too embarrassing for my hosts."
Yoav Alony-Gilboa, vet, 40, Hertfordshire
June 26, 2007
That is, I smell like one.
Because I got home to The Forgotten House Of Doom last night, niftily skipped past the menagerie (update: new rabbit has already replaced one eaten by dogs), the pools of alcoholic wee and the mad woman responsible for it all, only to find a smart, black parcel waiting for me at the foot of the stairs.
Now, who doesn't like parcels, eh? Presents in proper boxes delivered by the postie? Especially ones with "Jo Malone, London" inscribed in tasteful white lettering on the front of the box?
So, I scurried, Fagin-style, up the stairs to The Lost Attic Of All Noise, clutching my loot beneath my arm and grinning like The Child Catcher on a good day at the office.
I tore off the tape, prised open the box, and inside, I was delighted to find.... well, some hay.
Nice hay, admittedly. Dark brown stuff, good and dry. Horses would love it. Arsonists, too. But still, you know, hay.
But, ever the investigative hack, I delved in, and out came the cologne goodies: Wild Fig and Cassis , "warm and fruity"; Pomegranate Noir, "rich and regal"; Nectarine Blossom and Honey, "a sweet ambrosia".
They were an enormously generous gift from Lord and Lady Eggbod as a "well done" for the parachute jump, and came with a short, funny inscription that was signed off "Eggers".
Now, I'm not saying the wild fig and cassis scent is nice or anything, but put it this way: There are five people patiently queuing up to lick my face.
And no, none of them is Mojo.
Thank you, Eggers.
x
June 26, 2007
Purview, noun
1 The body or enacting part of a statute; the limit, purpose, or scope of a statute
2 The range or limit of authority, competence, responsibility, concern, or intention
3 Range of vision, understanding, or cognizance
"Eh? I thought that meant lurking in the ceiling of the women's changing room," said Nipper.
"Just goes to show," said Zeds. "Take everything Nick says with a pinch of salt."
June 25, 2007
This has just put me off my crisps.
It's work friendly and non-sex related, but it's also.... gross.
Anyhoo - up to you...
June 25, 2007
"You can't make an omelette without breaking a few eggs," says your mum/best mate/drug dealer, shaking their heads sympathetically at news of your latest misfortune/relationship blunder/near-fatal overdose.
Well, be wistful and more appreciative of your old mate hindsight no more, fact fans.
Because you bloody well can.
See? Now you can blame yourselves again!
* TOMORROW: Why there aren't "plenty more fish in the sea", thank you very much.
June 25, 2007
Pitter.
Patter.
Shimmer.
Pitter.
Pitter.
Pitter.
Patter.
Roll.
Trinkle.
Trankle.
Trankle.
DRUMMIDYDRUMMIDYDRUMMIDY.
*sigh*
I hate living in an attic when it's raining all bastard night long.
June 25, 2007
Nepotation, noun
Riotous living
"Bloody hell, man, you don't do things by halves, do you?" said Nipper, amazed. "Are you going to tell them?"
"No," said Zeds. "She'd kill me."
June 22, 2007
Darran, my friend, was 19, and in the infantry. And, as an infantryman, he had to spend a bit of time "guarding" Windsor Castle.
Now, when you're a scrote in the army - cannon fodder, if you will - you get the shit jobs.
Darran's was standing at the back, private entrance to the castle; essentially a sentry post that stood before a gravelled drive and the entrances, or exits, to the public mews that lay beyond.
"If you need assistance," barked his sergeant major, "press that button", he said, indicating a button at the back of the sentry box.
"Sir," said Darran, with a salute. And the SM left.
So.
Hours pass, and it's a little dull.
And Daz - as we call him - really, really needed a pooh.
But he's a soldier, a protector of the Queen - so he does a bit of marching, trying, quite literally, to walk it off.
It doesn't work, though. He needs a pooh. He needs to shit.
So, in "need of assistance", he presses the button.
***
He heard the helicopter first.
Then he saw, from his sentry post, blue lights flashing at the end of each "mew" before him - flashing and screaming and racing, rapidly, towards him.
Then a Vauxhall Carlton (it was a while ago) with no plates screeched round the corner, splattering him in gravel.
As the chopper lowered itself into the courtyard, and another - so far unseen - hovered overhead, a large, fierce man threw himself out of the Carlton.
"What the fuck?" he asked.
"Eh?" said Darran.
"You pressed the fucking button. The button! What?"
"Eh?"
"The fucking BUTTON?!"
"Um," said Darran.
"I, er, I, well, well, I needed a shit."
***
"We have just closed down the M4. The Royal Family are, as we speak, being helicoptered to safety. Roads have been closed. Heathrow has been temporarily shut down. Ferries are floating outside ports waiting for permission to dock. Even the fucking Stock Exchange has been put on alert. And all-"
and at that point, Darran told me, the red-faced MI5 man looked like he might actually explode
"-because you - you - you squat little scouse cunt, needed a fucking shit?"
"Um, yes, sir."
***
Darran didn't go to the toilet for the next three days.
June 22, 2007
At the risk of sounding like Viz character Spoilt Bastard - you know, this exceptionally nice young man:
...I am really ticked off that, as a child of the 1970s, I never had any of these:
The Space Hopper
A Chopper
A Grifter
Or Even The Poor Man's Grifter, The Striker
And you know what's coming next, don't you?
Oh yes.
They made me wear Clark's shoes.
* NB - Should I be concerned that in the lexicon that is the legend of the billions of pages of Google, if you type in the words "spoilt bastard" and then click on images, there are only four pages listed, and one of the entries is a Mum deodorant bottle, that alarmingly links to my blog? To my erstwhile chums at the council, look away now.
June 22, 2007
Estival, adj
Of or relating to the summer
"Good word," said Nipper.
"I know," said Zeds.
"But I'm still not going to Glastonbury."
"And neither am I."
