10000 miles of tough luck, three spoons and a basset
This is actually quite embarrassing. So Tom has this baseball bat, like, a proper one. You can see why people keep them under their beds; they're massive, and quite a scary thing. So the other day I was in bed, and I heard this crashing from downstairs. It doesn't sound good. So I go downstairs in my dressing gown and there's this little chinese guy in our house. He doesn't seem to be up to any good, and no-one else is about. Maybe someone had invited him to stay and not informed me, but I think it was more likely he was trying to rob us. He hadn't noticed me. So I went and got the bat. I came into the front room with the bat, and challenged him. He just lunged at me, but I rebuffed him with the bat. Then it gets a bit awkward. I chased him out of the house with the bat, but in the scuffle, somehow I managed to a) lose the dressing gown, and b) get locked out of the house. There I am, trying to get back in with nothing but a bat to shroud my modesty, shouting and cursing and banging on the door. I think one of the neighbours must have called the police. Now they assumed I was a madman and took me away. No charges were pressed, thank goodness, and when we got to the station, which is quite close by, they let me go home and even gave me a big blanket to wrap myself in. They kept the bat, however.
I have, of late, lost all my mirth.
Well, in a manner of speaking. I do seem completely incapable of going out and, for want of an infinitely better phrase, 'socialising'. I don't seem to have the knack any more. Either I attempt to go out and manage to choose a day when everyone seems more up for a 'quiet night in'; or I get all excited but find myself sound asleep by quarter past ten. Plus much of the time we end up going somewhere where I can't hear a darn word anyone is saying as I've got much issues with my hearing and it's hard to find somewhere of a weekend in Brighton that isn't packed and loud. I will get the knack of this in time, I hope. After dozing off last night in the Penthouse (perhaps the scene is just too soporific), I did wake up a bit on the journey home, and tried deep frying. I made onion rings and battered pepper and one battered garlic, but they're not quite right. I don't know if I'm doing something wrong. I was thinking of chopping up some garlic and coriander and mixing it with the batter. This might work.
A Moustache Trilogy
1. Upper Lip
I am sure your lip was never that size before
I never really noticed your upper lip
As particularly suprising
Before
Difficult to recall
A good lip, I’m sure
Not worthy, perhaps
To rise above
The forest of upper lips
That shrouds my memory
Perhaps that moustache you had
Has stretched it.
2. ‘with epicurean fervour’
Oh forested plateau
Oh wolfish moustache
The woodcutter approaches
Brandishing his axe
3.
Lip hair here.
Here hair, there.
Lip hair there.
Here, lip hair
Here, hair here.
Lip hair here.
Here lip, here.
Here hair, there.
Lip hair, where?
Here, lip, there.
Where hair? There.
Hare lip here.
Matt the Cripple is in town. He has currently a broken arm, which happened in a fall from a window, fifteen foot to the ground. This was due to the fact that the human pyramid that previously held him up had departed, leaving him to try to climb through the alas too small window. He was being put in plaster in Bath hospital when he left, stealing his x-rays, and getting on a train to Brighton. He took the x-rays to Brighton hospital but they didn't want to have anything to do with it.
Lucy is also in town. After an unsuccessful fling with John Leslie, the 'celebrity rapist', she is back to exact revenge after he sung an offensive song about her and placed it on his myspace page. Whether she will succeed where Ulrika Johhnson et al have failed is yet to be seen.
I also had a visit from a beautiful girl with a glass eye. Replete with John Prescott t-shirt and Mark Thatcher iconography, Annie Hell rolled into town. We bought sparklers, watched Neighbours (there is now a blind girl, Sky is pregnant and Stingray is the father but he doesn't know, Karl and Susan are back together but he slept with Izzy after she accidentally drugged him with sleeping pills, Lou's russian fiancee has been kidnapped by the russian mafia so he is now moving his considerable charms onto Janelle, and Max has gone on a meditation weekend with Katya and a bag full of salami. His visions involve him winning the World Cup but Katya's meditation has a more saucy nature, and Max himself is the subject. Of course, I knew all this already as I've been reading the episode summaries on neighboursfans.com since the TV broke, but it's nice to see Neighbours in the flesh now and again.
Real Ale Poem no. 2
Kronenberg
is spelled Kronenbourg
And Foster's
Has an apostrophe
It costs ten pounds to join CAMRA
And women
Get in free.
Tom has been befriending nazis on the internet. This is why we have this rather splendid picture of Hitler on the beach. The nazis tend to have photographs of hitler, blonde tennis players, and maps, for some reason, on their Fliicr accounts.
He also went back to his old house and rescued his guitar and keyboard. The keyboard is a power-synth and it has no end of fantastic sounds it can make. It looks like the floundering musical act that was Pukulele might just have a new lease of life.
Oh, and I am now a Master of Arts in English Literature. Splendid. A befitting qualification for a barkeep like myself. I have spent the last week making a big list of plans. Ideally, if all goes according to plan, I will be an auctioneer by june!
I have, of late, lost all my mirth.
Well, in a manner of speaking. I do seem completely incapable of going out and, for want of an infinitely better phrase, 'socialising'. I don't seem to have the knack any more. Either I attempt to go out and manage to choose a day when everyone seems more up for a 'quiet night in'; or I get all excited but find myself sound asleep by quarter past ten. Plus much of the time we end up going somewhere where I can't hear a darn word anyone is saying as I've got much issues with my hearing and it's hard to find somewhere of a weekend in Brighton that isn't packed and loud. I will get the knack of this in time, I hope. After dozing off last night in the Penthouse (perhaps the scene is just too soporific), I did wake up a bit on the journey home, and tried deep frying. I made onion rings and battered pepper and one battered garlic, but they're not quite right. I don't know if I'm doing something wrong. I was thinking of chopping up some garlic and coriander and mixing it with the batter. This might work.
A Moustache Trilogy
1. Upper Lip
I am sure your lip was never that size before
I never really noticed your upper lip
As particularly suprising
Before
Difficult to recall
A good lip, I’m sure
Not worthy, perhaps
To rise above
The forest of upper lips
That shrouds my memory
Perhaps that moustache you had
Has stretched it.
2. ‘with epicurean fervour’
Oh forested plateau
Oh wolfish moustache
The woodcutter approaches
Brandishing his axe
3.
Lip hair here.
Here hair, there.
Lip hair there.
Here, lip hair
Here, hair here.
Lip hair here.
Here lip, here.
Here hair, there.
Lip hair, where?
Here, lip, there.
Where hair? There.
Hare lip here.
Matt the Cripple is in town. He has currently a broken arm, which happened in a fall from a window, fifteen foot to the ground. This was due to the fact that the human pyramid that previously held him up had departed, leaving him to try to climb through the alas too small window. He was being put in plaster in Bath hospital when he left, stealing his x-rays, and getting on a train to Brighton. He took the x-rays to Brighton hospital but they didn't want to have anything to do with it.
Lucy is also in town. After an unsuccessful fling with John Leslie, the 'celebrity rapist', she is back to exact revenge after he sung an offensive song about her and placed it on his myspace page. Whether she will succeed where Ulrika Johhnson et al have failed is yet to be seen.
I also had a visit from a beautiful girl with a glass eye. Replete with John Prescott t-shirt and Mark Thatcher iconography, Annie Hell rolled into town. We bought sparklers, watched Neighbours (there is now a blind girl, Sky is pregnant and Stingray is the father but he doesn't know, Karl and Susan are back together but he slept with Izzy after she accidentally drugged him with sleeping pills, Lou's russian fiancee has been kidnapped by the russian mafia so he is now moving his considerable charms onto Janelle, and Max has gone on a meditation weekend with Katya and a bag full of salami. His visions involve him winning the World Cup but Katya's meditation has a more saucy nature, and Max himself is the subject. Of course, I knew all this already as I've been reading the episode summaries on neighboursfans.com since the TV broke, but it's nice to see Neighbours in the flesh now and again.
Real Ale Poem no. 2
Kronenberg
is spelled Kronenbourg
And Foster's
Has an apostrophe
It costs ten pounds to join CAMRA
And women
Get in free.
Tom has been befriending nazis on the internet. This is why we have this rather splendid picture of Hitler on the beach. The nazis tend to have photographs of hitler, blonde tennis players, and maps, for some reason, on their Fliicr accounts.
He also went back to his old house and rescued his guitar and keyboard. The keyboard is a power-synth and it has no end of fantastic sounds it can make. It looks like the floundering musical act that was Pukulele might just have a new lease of life.
Oh, and I am now a Master of Arts in English Literature. Splendid. A befitting qualification for a barkeep like myself. I have spent the last week making a big list of plans. Ideally, if all goes according to plan, I will be an auctioneer by june!
posted by Rufus Moonshine at 4:51 AM
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