Harmonica and Suncream

Smoke gets in your eyes
Originally uploaded by Dolores Luxedo.

So it’s now Thursday. Thursday the fourteenth of July. Rosanne sets off to The Glade in the morning. Me and Andy and Alice go out for coffee at the Dumb Waiter, where we hear about what the devil’s been going on in Australia whilst he’s been there. All very cosmopolitan for a passportless Albanian like myself. Andy wants to see everyone, so we call around and arrange to meet as many people as we can get in touch with at the Albert. This works really well, and it’s lovely once again to see everyone together. Fine ales and reunions. After the Albert closes me, Andy, Anna, Nicky P and Tom (and maybe some others. I can’t remember) return to our house to drink homebrew. Andy hates it, naturally, but it seems to go down quite well with everyone else. Andy and Nick leave, Tom goes to bed, and me and Anna drink homebrew and rant at each other for hours.

Everyone seems to be setting off to The Glade on Friday. During the day, me and Andy wander into town to run his errands. We go back to Quayfil House and go and look at Nick’s old room. He throws a load of mothballs about and finds some of his CDs. He is foiled in everything else he tries to do that day. As we are standing outside Elizabeth’s door she comes out of it, which is probably quite a surprising experience for her. We try to persuade her to come to The Bake, which is Jarvis’s 10 piece funk band playing at the Pressure Point. She says she will consider it. Then we go off so Andy can buy some shoes but fail to do so. We bump into Jacob with his sisters and cousin talking to Elizabeth in the Lanes. So we go to sit on the beach for a bit. Andy throws stones at me. I go to work. A very quiet shift. Anna pops in with her bag, about to set off Gladewards. I pour pints of ale. Seamus leaps about like a small hyperactive child in the body of a large Irishman.

As I take a cigarette break, Andy and Jacob’s cousin (Shona?) burst into the pub waving cans of beer and grab me, dragging me out of the pub and down the street. “You’ve got to come to The Bake with us now!”. “I can’t! I’m at work!”. They rant at me for a bit, generally concerning issues of Capital Pun-ishment. They forget that I’m the man with the golden pun, and so out-draw them from all angles. Or something along those lines.

After work, I run down the hill to the Pressure Point, where The Bake is taking place. The Bake, as Tommy puts it, is my monthly ‘Drink a whole bottle of gin’ time. This is a bad habit that I would not advise getting into. However, tradition being what it is, I drink a whole bottle of Gin, and we dance to Big Daddy Moochin’ getting into the groove of things. Funk without irony, blatantly the way forwards for music. As they say (in a deep growling voice) “Can you feel the funk?”

Ollie Gimp is there, which is cool, as are Jacob and sisters and cousin, Andy, the Cornish, Dom.. indeed, lots and lots of people. I spaz out a bit, I think, and poor Nicky P bears the brunt of it. We go outside after the club finishes. Andy actually goes a bit crazy and him and Joff are having this ridiculous fight on the floor. It’s all fun and games but they do seem to be inflicting severe pain on each other. Andy picks up Joff and throws him over some railings into a street, where he gets up, and throws himself back over, smashing right into Andy. Daniel Taylor, once again the voice of reason, has filled me in on what went on, because apparently at this point I was playing my harmonica to four random girls in an attempt to get them to to come to Phone Mast Dave’s launch party on Tuesday. (more about this to come). “What happened next?”, I asked Daniel. “Well, these four girls were dancing about as you played the harmonica. And then you got some suncream out of your bag and covered them in it.” I did? Dear god.

We make our slow and eventful way up the hill to Jed’s house. I think Andy tried to steal a digger. That boy is out of control sometimes. Eventually we get to Jed’s house. I walk in, crawl under the kitchen table, put my bag on the floor as a pillow, and go to sleep. Apparently Nick and Ollie eat a load of salami. I have no idea. I just sleep under the table. Joff makes a bed on the living room floor from cushions, and then, in the absence of covers, throws a load of old rags on me. I sleep under the rags.

The Return of the Native

Really big, wrapped in cling-film and in the neon room
Originally uploaded by Dolores Luxedo.

The Return of the Native

Getting back from the countryside, me, Rosanne and Dan Te planned to pop down to the Evening Star for a pint with Mr B, who was coming down to Brighton to see Rosanne, it being her birthday and all that. Just about to set off, the buzzer goes. “Dude”. As has previously been documented on here, it was Andy. Dude.

Being well tired from much travel and interchanging of time zones, his main priority was to get some food. So we phoned Alice, and popped round to eat her Pasta Bake. Much surprise ensued as few were expecting his imminent return. After pasta bakes and a chat, we popped down to the Eastern for an ale. “Oh, I reckon a beer will probably make or break me.”; said Andy. By the time Jed and Tommy had arrived (with crotch-rubbing episode around the Return of the Jed, I), the answer certainly seemed to be “make”, and so before long we found ourselves down Casablanka’s Jazz Club. This is often something I try and avoid, but on the other hand it is quite cheap. Sadly this didn’t stop us spending about £30 each as me, Andy, Rosanne and Daniel Taylor danced the night away to the live jazz band. Deary deary me.

By all accounts, as we left the club, Daniel and Rosie were thinking; “Oh look. Andy and Chris are talking to those two girls. We should leave them to it”, and walked on down the road. Andy joined them about a minute later, saying “Hey, why are you two walking off? Wait for me!”. “I thought you and Chris were talking to those girls”, responded Daniel. “Oh, he’s already ruined that one” replied Andy, as the two girls go off past them down the road, whilst I call after them “Wait! I haven’t finished telling you about Kafka!”. O dear god. This is what Daniel tells me, anyway. Duude. Not good. I have to stop doing things like that. Ha.

Home we went. As Mr B was asleep in Rosie’s bed, Tom asleep in his bed, Anna asleep in my bed, and Rosie and Daniel preparing to sleep on the Futon (we have a crowded house at the moment), I went to sleep on the big heap of old rags on my floor. Or my dirty clothes as some would call them. And a surprisingly pleasant night’s sleep it turned out to be, with breakfast in bed courtesy of Rosanne and Daniel a pleasant morning surprise also.

I should flamenco-co-co

How to make a Big Egg
Originally uploaded by Dolores Luxedo.

So I’ve been getting behind on this blogguing business. I wish I had a better excuse than my compound lameness and lack of very much free time. Except I do have loads of free time. It’s like tidying up. I’m a semi-employed semi-doing an MA ‘twentysomething’ in Brighton, which means I have a hell of a lot of free time but am easily distracted and there’s too much going on. I’m also completely broke. For several years we have wondered how the Brighton Coffee Industry works. At any time of day, Brighton is full of people drinking cups of coffee. Do these people have jobs? Perhaps those who work in coffee shops go to the many pubs and bars in the evening, only to be served drinks by those who bought coffee from them during the day. Which means it’s some kind of rota system, and makes everyone in Brighton either drunk or hyper-caffinated all the time. The middle ground involves handing flyers to people moving from coffee shops to pubs or back again.

Cities tend to be built in areas which have good transport, industry, commerce, etc, resources. But Brighton doesn’t, It would have made much more sense commercially to place it where Shoreham is, for example, with a fine natural harbour. Brighton was a fishing village (burnt down by the French in 1506) until the Prince Regent took a fancy to it. Possibly the only city in the UK without any real reason to be there. This probably says a lot.

So on Monday the tenth of July, we went to go see Dinomania, a ‘hardcore punk band who dress as dinosaurs’. I was drinking poor mans Black Velvet, which is half Guinness and half Cider. Traditionally the cider is replaced with Champagne, but that wasn’t going to happen. The first band were a plain old hardcore punk band. The Engine Rooms is a proper old skool downstairs dark dingy gothic heavy metal club. It’s cool. It reminded me of going to the Forum in Kentish Town during my teenage years, but a lot smaller and with no smashed up cars lying around. Once Steve tried to kick one of the smashed up cars we were sitting in whilst they played Sliver by Nirvana whilst we were sitting in it, and we nearly got thrown out of the Forum for trying to smash up a smashed up car. Anyway, the next band played hardcore punk whilst wearing motorcycle helmets. I realised at this point that I really don’t like hardcore punk. But we were there for the dinosaurs. Onto the stage came a seven piece band with dinosaur heads. They looked pretty good, especially the singer who was right in front of me. That was cool, their jaws bobbed in a most dinosaur-esque way and they did keep growling dinosaur-stylee into the microphones. I think the only I understood was “dinomania”. Music wasn’t that good, but it was fun. They played for about 25 minutes, and then it finished. Me and Tom popped into the Regency on the way back, where we talked about pigeons, seagulls, and the Smallest Rococo Room.

Tuesday night means Spanish Night. From the candlelit romance of a table in a big room and ales (all we needed was a wandering violinist) to the havoc of about a hundred Spanish people all flamencoing in time.

Wednesday morning I awoke and me and Rosanne made a packed lunch and set off to the countryside on the number 77 bus. Determined to spot somebody we knew as we open-topped it around town; “Scrubbers! Throw yourself into the road, darling! You haven’t got a chance!”. Alas it didn’t happen, but before long we were passing the Booth Museum of Natural History and then Devil’s Dyke was upon us. What a commute! We walked over the hills, surrounded by sheep (both mute and vocal) and a wild dog. Over several hills, and then down a chalky slope. Stopping under some trees, we ate our sandwiches, returned to the pub by the bus stop, where we had a pint, and found ourselves on the bus. On the top, we were surrounded by exchange students. Having rushed to the bus, we sat there for about quarter of an hour before it moved off. Windswept and poofy-haired, we drove back into town, searching once more for someone we recognised. We eventually saw little sweet Katy walking up past the station to Sevendials. It seemed a bit harsh to call out “Scrubbers! Throw yourself into the road!”, so we didn’t. But we did call a greeting as we passed.

Birthday

Carrot Ring
Originally uploaded by Dolores Luxedo.

I'm getting swept behind on this blogguing. So last Saturday was my 24th birthday. I'm so old. So as I finished work Jed and Tommy and Anna came and stayed behind for a drink and then sung me happy birthday as the clock struck 12. This was cool. Then Jed rubbed himself up against my boss. This was unusual. Then he asked if he could construct a 'jazz cigarette' on the bar. This was met witn a refusal. Anyway, we then went home and me and Anna were going to smoke buckets in the homebrew but it never happened.

The next morning I woke to find that Alice and Anna and Tom were cooking me breakfast and had filled the room with balloons and bought me a load of carrots and butter and cheese and an egg and a ring mould, in fact all the ingredients to construct "Carrot Ring". Breakfast was lovely. Cards arrived from my mother and father and sister. We strolled into town and up into the Bamboo Bar which rotated around. Out onto the balcony and Jed arrived and gave me a bottle of "Thomas Hardy's Ale", Victoria gave me a biscuit in the shape of a rocket, Andy (tom's andy) arrived, as did Ollie Gimp, Nicky P and Erica. Jed went off to buy pasties and we met Rai and Elizabeth and Fran as we left the Bamboo Bar and went off to the Basketmakers.



We all sat outside, and various people bought me pints of ale. Tommy arrived and presented me with a hat and a rap concerning the location of my Fresh Prince Jacket;

"Now this is a story all about how,
Your jacket got lost, went all around town,
If you'd like to take a minute, just sit right there,
I'll tell you how you can be dressing like the Prince of Bel Air.

I've always been a slacker who likes to get high,
And this is what happened one particular night,
Dancing to the bands, this party was radical,
Tried some rolypolies and snapped my left clavicle.

Made it back to your place to crash once again,
Lay around for several hours in a world of pain,
Flashed some bone to Mrs Bushnell, it was rather uncouth,
Put the jacket on and went to find Dr Booth.

Took the jacket off when I went to A & E,
And it stayed at Dr Booth's house for a couple of weeks,
What happened next is not my place to tell,
So if you wanna be the Prince, give my brother a bell."

Genius. Tommy is so cool. Alex Poofy and Teddy turned up and eventually we strolled along to get burgers. RedVeg is cool. Shame it's owned by Mc Donalds.

Then we went to the Evening Star, where we met Dave the Machine and Jarvis and some guy who covered my sideburns in some kind of hair styling product. Jarvis gave me a bottle of Rochefort 10. More chaos in the Star. Maya (american maya) turns up. Everyone keeps buying me drinks and I'm getting increasingly sketchy. Pub closes, I get a Whisky Mead which probably not the best of ideas, then we go to Kemptown but it's all on fire and me and Tommy find ourselves stumbling down this alleyway and through a door and there's all this blue pulsing stuff and there's some kind of octopus-like seamonster which I fight and then we escape and try to get into the Sussex Arts Club but as I try to enter brandishing a cheque for £1,000,000 they don't let me in and so we go home and I pass out and Jed probably rubs himself against me and then Tom and Tommy make a "Fried Breakfast Ring" which is bacon and eggs and sausages all fried up together and squashed into a ring and placed upon toast.

Sunday and we are going to have a cocktail party but first me and Anna go and meet Alice and Ed on the beach and we go for a swim. And then we go and buy all the stuff for the Cocktail Party and I start making the carrot ring and Rosie and Daniel arrive and Daniel gives me a picture that has been signed by Julian Barnes and Rosie gives me a white panama hat and a book and a slimming belt and Alice comes round and makes Canapes and Alex comes round and then we're totally having this excellent cocktail party, on the roof terrace with classy dresses and white linen suits and Jed has altered all sorts of packaging to match his clothes. At about 10ish we take the futon frame down to the beach to hurn. Dom dresses up like a hippy with an ethnic blanket wrapped around him and a big drum. Jed and Joff and Erica spot Chris Ewbank driving down Kings Road so they roadblock him with the Futon. We have a fire. It's cool. Davey Mec plays the bongos.

So nothing grotesquely eventful (apart from maybe whatever happened with the seamonster) but a lovely weekend with loads of splendid people. Brilliant. Yes. Yes!

"Duude"

Coolest thing.
Originally uploaded by Dolores Luxedo.

Yesterday. Was sitting around in our front room, about to pop down to the pub with Rosie and Dante to go meet Mr B. When the buzzer goes off. "Dude". It's Andy, travel-worn after 13 hours on a plane. Dude. This is so cool. Most exciting. Yes! Brilliant! We go see Alice and Ed and Anna and then go to the Yeastern. Andy tugs at Tommy's moustache. Jed rubs himself up against Andy. Yes! Andy's home! That's so cool.

Dave

Dave
Originally uploaded by Dolores Luxedo.

As previously mentioned on this bloggue, here; Dave took a photo of his 'man organ' on my camera the other day. It is a joke he likes to play upon finding a camera. The film is currently at Jessops and I shall put the picture on my bloggue when it gets developed. If it gets developed. I think Dave need to be an active as well as passive participant in the world of Internet Porn. I only say this because I believe he would respect me for doing so.

So I got the photo developed. I reckon it'd be a bit over the top to put it on the main page. But you can see it here; NSFW. Splendid.

Stroll up for a roll up

Annie Hell's collapsing smoke
Originally uploaded by Dolores Luxedo.

Sugar. So I got up this morning and after a couple of cups of tea I began looking for my tobacco and discovered what seemed to be a rolly already prepared and lying on the coffee table for me to smoke.

Alas, t'was a Jazz Cigarette. And I had such a productive day planned.

O well. I'm going out to get some Golden Syrup Cake.

filling in the blanks / a warm blunkett

Wednesday was the swimming, as Annie Hell and Lou Carpy sived into the sea whilst me and Rosie co-ordinated our outfits and met Lou's new housemates. Daniel Taylor bore gifts from Jof, and we attempted to shoot down seagulls.

Failing to grab a Perculiarberg we strolled up Southover Street in search of the codfather, who had bigger fish to fry. In the end some kindly girls carrying a chair pointed us in the right direction. With the blessing of the Codfather we tried to find Lou's new house but it had vanished into the wormhole nexus between 10 and 14. Quiet in the Geeys as we felt antisocial and dazed and wappy. Except for Jed who was big and wrapped in clingfilm and in the neon room. He found the funky angle and laid down the jackhammer of funk. Home and I had a brief Boyd Hoyland moment, hallucinating no end of soft drinks and hard cheeses.

I think we could all do with a quiet night in. Peppers were grilled to form a red pepper risotto. Dinner parties with red wine and chilli beer. Civilised and the gang. Cooking isn't really my forte but it came out okay.

Friday is all Ebony and Ivory as Paul Mc Cartney stands next to Stevie Wonder as he plays the piano. I become inspired in town and sit on the street to write something down. Phone Mast Dave walks past, sees me sitting on the street and calls out "Get a job!". Then Alice walks past so I ask her for spare change. We go for coffee. I go to Randsomes. Home I return, just enough time to document up until tuesday before I have to go to work. I go to work. And we're back there again.

(Just filling in the blanks, really. More to follow.)

explosions

Dear god. London is in chaos. Explosions everywhere. Terrorist attacks. The entire London transport system closed down. And Neighbours was delayed by half an hour.

More ambiguous than ambitious

Lots to write, not much time. One day daddy's going to take the biscuit away...

Right, this is getting cluttered. The morris took place on Thursday. Friday. Work. Ale. Being mocked for falling off a bar stool. quite restful. Return home for a bottle of Newcastle Brown and some jazz and laughing at our own jokes until we go blind.

The next morning I get on a train and return to St. Albans for Nick's birthday. I get to see Paul Mc Cartney jigging away at the side of the stage as UB40 play Red Red Wine and I Shall Always Love You. Nick's party is small and cozy and very funny. Simon and Becky and Anna come round and we make the gin machine. This works like a charm. A lemon, with two little holes cut in the bottom, into each of these we insert a straw. One straw goes into a bottle of gin, the other into a bottle of tonic water. Then with a larger hole cut in the top of the lemon, we suck the two liquids into the lemon and out into our mouths to make incredible gin and tonic. Annie drinks four cans of cider incredibly quickly. Tim Harris arrives, then Rob, Paul and Steve. Rob doesn't bring the 1.5kW amp he has in his car boot. Then Chikin Boy and Lisa and Tom Drew and Graham and Holly and Marcus arrive. Marcus is an irishman I have never met before but he can sing us at 14 verse irish folk song. My teenage sister crashes in after drinking a whole bottle of White Lightning and rants at us and tries to steal fags. We have an impromptu Can't Snorkel singalong. Simon dashes home to watch the cricket and then returns. Lovely to be back in St. Albans.

The next day I'm going to go to the train station but pop into the Lower Red Lion to go see Annie beforehand and it turns out there's a beer festival going on so I decide to stay in St. Albans another night and we sit in the garden and drink halves of unusual ales and ciders all afternoon. Back home for Sunday Dinner with the family and then pop down the Bee Hive for old times sake. I come home and catch the end of Four Weddings and a Funeral.

"Is it raining? I hadn't noticed."

Man, I want to be Richard Curtis. Train and True Life magazines back to Brighton with Annie Hell and then to poetry night in the evening and there's some kind of art launch party private view going on in the bar downstairs so we get free bottles of beer and a buffet and me and Anna try to getfree drinks and order something that's not free and they try to charge us £6.80 and we don't actually have any money so we have to run away and I come third at poetry night this time but it was much fun and I think it all went down well, Sarah from Bath turns up, the whole time I am filled with such a ridiculous amount of hyperactive energy and am bouncing off walls, literally. I put it down to ADHD. Two people asked me to guest appear on their tracks however which was very cool although I might have to go a bit hip hop. Back to Jacobs and a strange french guy and the gin machine again and elderflower wine then back to ours and me and Rosie morris dance with big knives and she stabs my tent and then we decide we are going to cut out Tom's offal and so as we advance down the corridoor muttering "cut out his offal, jill dando, cut out his offal" but he is in bed with David Hasselhof and so we spare his offal.

David Offalhof and Daniel Taylor gets a job in a posh resteraunt in Kemptown and it is Nick's actual birthday and Anna Hall's birthday and so we go to the Leather Barn and get Nick a cow skull necktie and meet Victoria in the street and go to the Basketmakers Arms for chip butties and ale and Shige is there with Ash who is a morris dancer and then we go to the Late Priestern and there are now three Annas, Brown Anna, Anna Hell and Anna Hall, and Brown Anna gets a tiny classy shot glass full of Summer Lightning and Alan is there with the other 18,999,999 people in London but we can't see them and then the Art Girls go off to The Escape to go to indie night and all Nick wants to do is go the the pub, have a few beers, go to heavy metal night, have some more drinks, go home, pass out about four o clock, and so me and Brown Anna and Nick and Henry and the heavy metal kids go to the Pav Tav for heavy metal night and we drink Snakebite and black and Anna and Steve want to go to Alton Towers but she has to get back for work at 2, and so another snakebite and black and we were going to get elastic hip hop hinges on
our shoulders for dancing purposes but go home and go to bed

That's as far as Tuesday. It's now Friday and I still haven't mentioned the swimming and the codfather and Mag Zine and becoming Boyd Hoyland and pepper grilling but all in good time. I have to go to work.

It's my birthday tomorrow. I'm going to be twenty four.

Three men's morris. And two girls as well. Morris, that is.

"I am just a rung
And you are aiming high"
- Davey Crockett

From the tone of the quote, it sounds like I'm a bit down in the dumps. Far from it. I've had one of the coolest weeks of my life this last seven days or near abouts. Plenty to tell, and I'm quite sleepy at the moment so I might not get round to it all.

Brown Anna is living with us which is most excellent, and not just because it's nice to have a fellow vegetarian smoker in the house, but because, unlike me, she can look at my forlorn homebrew container that's been used as a surface for clutter for six months, and in a matter of hours a big 40 pint barrel of malty liquid with yeast floating on it is fermenting in our kitchen. She didn't even touch it, just raised one eyebrow in a quizzical manner and our kitchen went all microbrewery. Opening the tin was dramatic, however... not knowing what the contents would be, it was surprising to find a gloopy malty thick marmite substance. Although as Daniel Taylor found out, it doesn't taste much like marmite. Purchasing the required 'bag' of sugar along with household groceries, I returned to discover my tea had been spiked with said substance. Out came the bottle cleaning brush, as we thought we'd better start sterilising the equipment before all the ingredients ended up being used for the purposes of spiking. The instructions said "add yeast according to directions on packet." The packet said "Yeast". Actually, it didn't even say that, but merely had three letters that seemed to make no comprehensible Three Letter Acronym. (Or TLA, as some would say). But it looked like yeast so in it went. Putting the sterilising stuff in the barrel worked when we shook it, but when we tried to rotate the barrel to ensure total sterilisation we sterilised the floor. Forty pints of water at 25 degrees? Do they assume we have thermometers lying about? We had to guess on that one. But hopefully soon we will have plenty of ale to drink. If no-one else likes it we'll have to drink 20 pints each. But that'll make for quite an entertaining afternoon anyway. So it's a win win situation all in all.

I might have mentioned the falling off a barstool incident in the pub I work in already. If not, then I've just brushed over the major details, apart from minor elbow damage. However, what I don't think I mentioned is that apparently I skuttled across the floor and through my boss's legs? I don't really understand this. I have no memory of this happening. The mere idea of it is so entertaining, however, I'm prepared to think it did happen.

So on Thursday me and Anna and Rosie and Daniel Taylor and Tom went down to the Lion and Lobster to go have a pint of ale and watch some morris dancers. Daniel handed me something that I thought was a mint but turned out to be an ibuprofin. So I bit into it and spent the next two minutes spitting out beer and painkillers onto the floor because it tasted so horrible. Fortunately we were outside and I didn't put the morris dancers off their stride although I might have looked like a bit of a mentalist.

Now I don't think it was the drink that took us over, I think it was the power of the morris. We had only just arrived and were in quite a sober state as we chinked our glasses, eyes meeting, but something about bearded men waving handkerchiefs, wearing bells on their legs and moving in formation to accordion music hit us like a swing band. Oh, and that's without the sticks. These are proper hardcore morris men. With each crack as the sticks met we felt sympathy pain in our knuckles. Sticks were broken, thrown about, Morris dancers went flying through the air. We were hooked. This was incredble! After half an hour the Morris Dancers moved on to another pub, but we followed them. It was like a morris crawl.

As we walked from the Lion and Lobster to a quite-hard-to-find pub that it's worth the search, called the Conqueror, we witnessed an incredible sight. One of those bicycles that are quite flat to the ground, with one wheel at the back and two at the front, so the cyclist is very much reclined. Ridden by a morris man with a long ginger beard, clutching a pewter tankard full of ale. It was incredible.

More morris and sticks. Daniel went over and requested "something where you throw lots of sticks". This was Morris like I've never seen before. Almost up with the S&M leather lederhosen morris dancers that Anna Hell once saw, beating eachother with wet leather straps. Sticks flew through the air, sticks were broken, bells jingled, the accordion played for all it was worth.

Daniel Taylor got given a broken stick by the morris dancers and they asked him to join them. That would be so cool. We returned to the Lion and Lobster, ate baked potatoes, and returned home to identify dogs and quibble over Gala Pies.

So much more happened this week. But as my bed in St. Albans is quite soft, and my eyes are drooping like a Teacher-Collins patient, I think I should probably succumb to my body's weaknesses. Like bloody having to eat and stuff. What's the point? You're only going to have to poo it out again.

But yes. it was a good week. it was an interesting week.