hair conditioning
why is it that we have this idea in our heads that we're indestructable, that we can take anything we could possibly throw at ourselves. 'when I spike you, you'll know you've been spoken to'. it's been a funny couple of weeks, all in all. the equivelant of looking back at your photo album and realising that the last 200 photographs only span a couple of months. it's probably best to start with the biscuit convention, where gin came up one tube, tonic up another, to converge in a lemon that presented an easy way to suck the resulting mixture, like a bottle of poison with an onion on the end, but slightly healthier. funk without irony and shaky dancing and the next thing we knew M the C was outside reading his book. more funk and rosie yearning to cosy up to cornish and then we begin the stroll back to hartington road for some stringy threads. it descends swiftly into slightly bad craziness with hair ftying and eating and neighbours made cross by traditional cornish ballads and I grew tall and had a moustache and placed my arm in a sling for some unethical rum stealing. like I said, bad. and then Matt became a delivery man with his bag and hat and we were going to go sit in the hot tub but instead went for a breakfast that passed by in a blurry haze like evaporated fat. park cafe park. onto the beach where tommy slept and cooked and joff threw himself in the sea and nick went to the cinema and rosie entwined her way through the lanes to work and we went home to sleep it off and waking I found that I had lost my soul.
back in the Yeastern after a stroll barefoot through town dressed as a folk festival and gradually off for beach and country and western and ale swapping and back for quiet curries and a rice sandwich and talk of driving to stonehenge for the summer solstice. jeds birthday and matts birthday fall on the same day as that blonde hunk Boris Johnson and as mett sets off in the morning to meet beefy and I stroll into town for pasties and onto the beach with tiny bottles and the tide coming in and rosie and jed swim out to rescue a boy and then to sit in the gutter outside the lion and lobster then in search of belgian and pear cider and we trail back to stringy threads and banana pancakes rosie talks to a voice only she can hear and as we walk home she is followed by a keen young blue lighter than darts along behind her like a small child.
we arrive home to find matt and sophie and beefy in our house with the fan and in the morning beefy prepares a breakfast whilst rosie and tommy and jarvis and daniel prepare to drive to stonehenge and they set off I remain with the folks from bath and after primark we go to the beach where matt and beefy go in the sea and I drift off asleep. they leave and I go to a poetry night finding out that rosie and the other going to stonehenge actually ended up in cornwall. i get told off for mocking slam poetry but come second again. jed nearly entices a hip hop superstar back to his house but gets free cds. the next day a small time tea tour takes us to the beach and martha is in the sea I ride in victoria's car to the eastern not sure what happens next I think I go to jacobs with a bottle of wine and eating food in the park and home and sleep early sleep early
next day rosie has the ssore with the poo and I don't really remember that day but we end up on the beach with a large orange moon that we fail to swim out to and then the next day I manage to swim in the sea but am dragged down by the weight of my wet clothes and ought to buy some more seaworthy attire.
more haziness and then into the 44 and a half hour work marathon sandwiching a 32 hour shift between two shifts at the pub together with troublesome cricketers and A Game At Chess and free wine with yr art and then going to the Worst Free Party in the World, at two thirty we set off to walk from Hove to Black Rock, expecting a massive sound system and a load of crazy ravers with white gloves. always good for a laugh. actually what we find is a couple of speakers and someone playing a trance CD off their stereo, with about 25 spangled people wandering about "touch! it's my birthday!" doug makes some new friends and after an hour or so we decide to go home. dom tommy doug and fran go sit in a hot tob.
the next day Pasta in the Park and touring an art exhibition a garden in the Office with Art Girls and currying favour recycling in a spare electric wheelchair heather ale stamp collecting
Richard Whiteley is really actually dead. It's the final countdown. Rest in peace.
into London to go see Jamie Liddel. He harmonises with himself using sampler and beat box and orange clothing. some ales outside The Black Friar. a weekly arrangement. no, it was lovely, a good old fashioned leafy garden in the big city ahead of us and a lovely old chat and I learned the 4 step mechanical hand "hey baby" motion. maybe a bit too many ales and we find pasty and go to the 'club' JL was cool. I paid bloody £3.19 for a packet of Golden Vag. This makes me sick. Ha. At the end we accost poor JL who probably gets a bit spun out by the picture of him that Rosie has in her wallet. they pose with him as the father of her child. when we try to take him back to our house he runs away. stupid petty arguments on the way home, a microcosmic wittgenstinean eye. it's not just a cigarette it's a bloody metaphor and they don't smoke well. we meet some albanians at east croydon and rosie searches for chocolate whilst I sulk. she tries to sleep on the floor of brighton station but we get kicked out
the next day I'm actually shaking as we teenage gang amble about town. everyone seems to be going a bit sketchy at the moment. after stir frying we head in the rain to the yeastern without londis lighters and see daniel and the happiness consultant and victoria and gay alex who we haven't seen in ages and is back from america and then as we walk back past the evening star we see matt and jay and a pint of ipa and I fall off the chair and god knows what else and then home and then in the end I think I realised I should probably just stop complaining and go with the flow because it's funny how things turn out
back in the Yeastern after a stroll barefoot through town dressed as a folk festival and gradually off for beach and country and western and ale swapping and back for quiet curries and a rice sandwich and talk of driving to stonehenge for the summer solstice. jeds birthday and matts birthday fall on the same day as that blonde hunk Boris Johnson and as mett sets off in the morning to meet beefy and I stroll into town for pasties and onto the beach with tiny bottles and the tide coming in and rosie and jed swim out to rescue a boy and then to sit in the gutter outside the lion and lobster then in search of belgian and pear cider and we trail back to stringy threads and banana pancakes rosie talks to a voice only she can hear and as we walk home she is followed by a keen young blue lighter than darts along behind her like a small child.
we arrive home to find matt and sophie and beefy in our house with the fan and in the morning beefy prepares a breakfast whilst rosie and tommy and jarvis and daniel prepare to drive to stonehenge and they set off I remain with the folks from bath and after primark we go to the beach where matt and beefy go in the sea and I drift off asleep. they leave and I go to a poetry night finding out that rosie and the other going to stonehenge actually ended up in cornwall. i get told off for mocking slam poetry but come second again. jed nearly entices a hip hop superstar back to his house but gets free cds. the next day a small time tea tour takes us to the beach and martha is in the sea I ride in victoria's car to the eastern not sure what happens next I think I go to jacobs with a bottle of wine and eating food in the park and home and sleep early sleep early
next day rosie has the ssore with the poo and I don't really remember that day but we end up on the beach with a large orange moon that we fail to swim out to and then the next day I manage to swim in the sea but am dragged down by the weight of my wet clothes and ought to buy some more seaworthy attire.
more haziness and then into the 44 and a half hour work marathon sandwiching a 32 hour shift between two shifts at the pub together with troublesome cricketers and A Game At Chess and free wine with yr art and then going to the Worst Free Party in the World, at two thirty we set off to walk from Hove to Black Rock, expecting a massive sound system and a load of crazy ravers with white gloves. always good for a laugh. actually what we find is a couple of speakers and someone playing a trance CD off their stereo, with about 25 spangled people wandering about "touch! it's my birthday!" doug makes some new friends and after an hour or so we decide to go home. dom tommy doug and fran go sit in a hot tob.
the next day Pasta in the Park and touring an art exhibition a garden in the Office with Art Girls and currying favour recycling in a spare electric wheelchair heather ale stamp collecting
Richard Whiteley is really actually dead. It's the final countdown. Rest in peace.
into London to go see Jamie Liddel. He harmonises with himself using sampler and beat box and orange clothing. some ales outside The Black Friar. a weekly arrangement. no, it was lovely, a good old fashioned leafy garden in the big city ahead of us and a lovely old chat and I learned the 4 step mechanical hand "hey baby" motion. maybe a bit too many ales and we find pasty and go to the 'club' JL was cool. I paid bloody £3.19 for a packet of Golden Vag. This makes me sick. Ha. At the end we accost poor JL who probably gets a bit spun out by the picture of him that Rosie has in her wallet. they pose with him as the father of her child. when we try to take him back to our house he runs away. stupid petty arguments on the way home, a microcosmic wittgenstinean eye. it's not just a cigarette it's a bloody metaphor and they don't smoke well. we meet some albanians at east croydon and rosie searches for chocolate whilst I sulk. she tries to sleep on the floor of brighton station but we get kicked out
the next day I'm actually shaking as we teenage gang amble about town. everyone seems to be going a bit sketchy at the moment. after stir frying we head in the rain to the yeastern without londis lighters and see daniel and the happiness consultant and victoria and gay alex who we haven't seen in ages and is back from america and then as we walk back past the evening star we see matt and jay and a pint of ipa and I fall off the chair and god knows what else and then home and then in the end I think I realised I should probably just stop complaining and go with the flow because it's funny how things turn out
posted by Rufus Moonshine at 3:46 AM
4 Comments:
I did not know what to think when I was told again for the second time in a matter of months that poor old Richard Whiteley was dead, did the rumour spread all the way to Thailand? Is there someone else out here who also thought it would be funny to spread around that RW was dead, or was he actually dead? You can see my confusion. However it is entirely true. For a second time this year I have had to come to terms with the death of Richard Whiteley. Tis funny the way things turn out.
>>realising that the last 200 photographs only span a couple of months
totally
Lisa, I think it's you that's the anonymous one? Good in the land of the Tie? I thought, God, I hope Lisa knows RW is dead. I haven't seen the body. Richard "Died in the night" Whiteley. Alice is really worried that it's her fault.
Della, t'is true. I'm thinking of employing an asylum seeker to scan them all in. I now know all the staff of Jessops quite well. They even give me a free film every time I get photos developed! Such sweeties!
Sorry I don't normally reply to comments upon here. As the form of the writing may suggest, I don't have many chances to write stuff. Well, I do. But I'm bad lazy.
ain't no such thing as 'bad lazy'
it's all good
(or 'goos' as i wrote first time)
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