Little Yo-yo
God, it's been a while since something like that happened. Andy, where were you? So I woke up this morning in bed with a true life magazine and a headache. I stumbled downstairs, with a temporary lack of memory. Help the bombadier! "I'm cold. I'm cold. I'm late." Tom Daniel and Rosie were all late for work this morning. In fact Rosie was late to the point of not going. The old people sadly had no cleaning today, and they wept.
So I got the train back from university, semitotics books nestling with Patricia Highsmith cosily in my bag, and ran down Trafalgar Street to the Late Priestern, where I met young Elizabeth for a pint of ale and a chat about her house search and slipping her phone number into the library books of hot boys. Back to her small village near Reading, she voyaged, and Rosanne finished work. Then, suddenly, we were filled with a compulsion to go on some ridiculous pubcrawldrinkingbinge. From the Great Eastern, we decided to go somewhere we had never gone before. as we wandered the streets eating potato snacks, we came across Zoe with a Komedia seeking entourage, and wee little Alex Campbell stalking the streets on a quest for blood and human meat. To my surprise, Rosanne had never been to the Black Horse, and so this was our next destination, where we met a friendly chap called John who told us jokes and explained why he was barred from the Eastern. Then on to the Victory, where an absence of Peculiarberg meant that we had to sip at halves of Directors with Tay-Tay, Joff and Andrea. Then, down to Alleycats, where we fell into the warm welcoming arms of Tommy, Dave the Machine, and Dom-inatrix. I'm not entirely sure what happened next, but we found ourselves weathering a tropical storm in the garden of the Hop Poles, as the rain and wind lashed at the palm trees and failed to wash the list of cornish from the wall.
A death-defying climb later and we were in the Pavillion Tavern, home of Andy's beating heart, and we sat at the sticky tables, sipping at Snakebites and Black, and listening to Indie Rock Music. By now, it was just me, Tom, Rosanne and Daniel, or Papa, Toto, Elbow and Tay-tay, as the residents of Maison Homesweet Flat no. 4 have been dubbed.
And dubbed we were, as we muttered in Spanish. Elbow and Toto are both speeding towards the finale of Catch-22 at the moment. I was well chuffed when that friend of Tommy Withie told me that I reminded her of Yossarian. How cool is that!
I have the most travelled copy of Catch-22. It has been to Japan and back three times, to Spain, to Sheffield, to St. Albans, and currently lives in Brighton. So that's at least two countries that I've never been to. Good going, Catch-22.
So I got the train back from university, semitotics books nestling with Patricia Highsmith cosily in my bag, and ran down Trafalgar Street to the Late Priestern, where I met young Elizabeth for a pint of ale and a chat about her house search and slipping her phone number into the library books of hot boys. Back to her small village near Reading, she voyaged, and Rosanne finished work. Then, suddenly, we were filled with a compulsion to go on some ridiculous pubcrawldrinkingbinge. From the Great Eastern, we decided to go somewhere we had never gone before. as we wandered the streets eating potato snacks, we came across Zoe with a Komedia seeking entourage, and wee little Alex Campbell stalking the streets on a quest for blood and human meat. To my surprise, Rosanne had never been to the Black Horse, and so this was our next destination, where we met a friendly chap called John who told us jokes and explained why he was barred from the Eastern. Then on to the Victory, where an absence of Peculiarberg meant that we had to sip at halves of Directors with Tay-Tay, Joff and Andrea. Then, down to Alleycats, where we fell into the warm welcoming arms of Tommy, Dave the Machine, and Dom-inatrix. I'm not entirely sure what happened next, but we found ourselves weathering a tropical storm in the garden of the Hop Poles, as the rain and wind lashed at the palm trees and failed to wash the list of cornish from the wall.
A death-defying climb later and we were in the Pavillion Tavern, home of Andy's beating heart, and we sat at the sticky tables, sipping at Snakebites and Black, and listening to Indie Rock Music. By now, it was just me, Tom, Rosanne and Daniel, or Papa, Toto, Elbow and Tay-tay, as the residents of Maison Homesweet Flat no. 4 have been dubbed.
And dubbed we were, as we muttered in Spanish. Elbow and Toto are both speeding towards the finale of Catch-22 at the moment. I was well chuffed when that friend of Tommy Withie told me that I reminded her of Yossarian. How cool is that!
I have the most travelled copy of Catch-22. It has been to Japan and back three times, to Spain, to Sheffield, to St. Albans, and currently lives in Brighton. So that's at least two countries that I've never been to. Good going, Catch-22.
posted by Rufus Moonshine at 4:38 AM
2 Comments:
I cannot believe you want to the Pav Tav without me :(
Why? What evil have I done you? Well tonight it's indie £1.50 so lets go again. Yeah?
now you see, while i re-read the wasp factory about every other month, i only re-read catch-22 about every three or four months.
yet i like catch-22 so much more. some things can never be explained...
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