Custard Apple
So on the close-to-second anniversary of Andy's neighbourly "Happy Halloween Neighbour" trauma, Rosanne attempted to up the ante by putting a PIGS FACE on the wall of our Landlord's house. Thankfully Jed stopped her and confiscated the pigs face.
"I'm at the bottom of Trafalgar Street ... I've got the pig's face ... nobody else likes him but I have him..."
More on the face to come. The other day we were sitting on Tom's roof to admire a beautiful sunset (hippies! I cuss you bad!) when it turned out Jed was having a bath. This discovery was made as we saw him through his window from Tom's roof. "Perverts!", he shouted, as we bade a hasty retreat from our voyeuristic delight.
Tom is back, by the way, sans dog. We tried to ask him about it, but he's not saying anything. He looked like he had been living in a ditch for a week. He's re-reading The Wasp Factory. God Jesus Christ.
Andy has moved into his new house with Jools and Andy K and Erica and Cassia and Jana. It used to be owned by the man who owned the Ocean Rooms with very much the same decor, a pink-and-silver theme on the walls and padded vinyl flooring. The pombear already has his paws in the drawers.
Poetry Slam Final yesterday. I came a thoroughly disappointing fourth. Cheered myself up by drinking far too much and making a scene. Perhaps. What I definately did is accidentally end up making unfavourable remarks on some kind of interview for Brighton TV (whatever the heck that is). Oh well. There's still quite a chance no-one will ever see it. Going to take a different approach to Poetry night in the new year. Ah well. Jimmy was splendid as usual with fake stick-on-sideburns and a torrent of haiku. Dan Riviera captivated the audience with an epic psychedelic sprawl of power. Mark Gwynne Jones was there, but thoroughly disappontingly failed to read any poems at all. And yes, of course, Disraeli won, but you can't really fault the poetic prowess of someone who's been to Iraq and seen what's going on out there. A lesson our political leaders need to learn, I believe.
So the Pigs Face. There was an offal-festival at the Pull and Pump. Daniel Taylor managed to remove the face from a pigs head and they engaged themselves in a photoshoot session, encouraging members of the public to wear the face as if it was their own, whilst Tom took photographs. Eventually the inevitable happened. Daniel was branded a 'sicko' by an angry girl, who took a swipe at the face with her bag. The face got tangled with the bag. The girl began to fight the face, stomping it with her pointy little shoes. Daniel wept in shock and surprise at the sudden demise of his art. The girl left. The pig face lay, injured but not beyond rescue, on the floor.
I think at this point I had already left. We ended up in the Fish Bowl with Seamus. Girlies!
Fireworks night. We didn't go to Lewes. Instead we climbed up a big hill, found ourselves trapped in the race course, but managed to escape, and found ourselves upon a great plateau above the city, watching the fireworks burst. They were holding a dog show in the next field but all the butterfly lions and puff dogs were distressed by the loud noise. The sturdy pug, however, remained cheery and resilliant. No community bonfire.
"I'm at the bottom of Trafalgar Street ... I've got the pig's face ... nobody else likes him but I have him..."
More on the face to come. The other day we were sitting on Tom's roof to admire a beautiful sunset (hippies! I cuss you bad!) when it turned out Jed was having a bath. This discovery was made as we saw him through his window from Tom's roof. "Perverts!", he shouted, as we bade a hasty retreat from our voyeuristic delight.
Tom is back, by the way, sans dog. We tried to ask him about it, but he's not saying anything. He looked like he had been living in a ditch for a week. He's re-reading The Wasp Factory. God Jesus Christ.
Andy has moved into his new house with Jools and Andy K and Erica and Cassia and Jana. It used to be owned by the man who owned the Ocean Rooms with very much the same decor, a pink-and-silver theme on the walls and padded vinyl flooring. The pombear already has his paws in the drawers.
Poetry Slam Final yesterday. I came a thoroughly disappointing fourth. Cheered myself up by drinking far too much and making a scene. Perhaps. What I definately did is accidentally end up making unfavourable remarks on some kind of interview for Brighton TV (whatever the heck that is). Oh well. There's still quite a chance no-one will ever see it. Going to take a different approach to Poetry night in the new year. Ah well. Jimmy was splendid as usual with fake stick-on-sideburns and a torrent of haiku. Dan Riviera captivated the audience with an epic psychedelic sprawl of power. Mark Gwynne Jones was there, but thoroughly disappontingly failed to read any poems at all. And yes, of course, Disraeli won, but you can't really fault the poetic prowess of someone who's been to Iraq and seen what's going on out there. A lesson our political leaders need to learn, I believe.
So the Pigs Face. There was an offal-festival at the Pull and Pump. Daniel Taylor managed to remove the face from a pigs head and they engaged themselves in a photoshoot session, encouraging members of the public to wear the face as if it was their own, whilst Tom took photographs. Eventually the inevitable happened. Daniel was branded a 'sicko' by an angry girl, who took a swipe at the face with her bag. The face got tangled with the bag. The girl began to fight the face, stomping it with her pointy little shoes. Daniel wept in shock and surprise at the sudden demise of his art. The girl left. The pig face lay, injured but not beyond rescue, on the floor.
I think at this point I had already left. We ended up in the Fish Bowl with Seamus. Girlies!
Fireworks night. We didn't go to Lewes. Instead we climbed up a big hill, found ourselves trapped in the race course, but managed to escape, and found ourselves upon a great plateau above the city, watching the fireworks burst. They were holding a dog show in the next field but all the butterfly lions and puff dogs were distressed by the loud noise. The sturdy pug, however, remained cheery and resilliant. No community bonfire.
posted by Rufus Moonshine at 6:19 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home