Triple Distilled

Do you ever wonder how marketers would advertise alcohol if it were a brand new product now? How you could tell someone who had never heard of or experienced any form of inebriation why it was great to be drunk? Imagine it right now (if you’re sober). Imagine being absolutely shit faced. Imagine singing a small part of Fairytale of New York and telling whoever you are nearest to that it is the spirit of Christmas. Imagine dropping part of the most disgusting meal you have ever eaten and then picking it up and eating it. Imagine climbing over a fence or railing at 3am.

Now think of all the actual changes that have taken effect. You’re kinda really happy and really angry at the same time. You have the capability for great violence but not the strength or coordination to open your front door. You love everyone completely yet will insult and fight with your best friend over nothing. You are completely stupid yet able to expound the most complex of theories with absolute assurance of them being correct. You are a myriad of contradictory and unnatural states.

Now think about alcohol advertisements. Don’t they make a bit more sense if you realize the surrealist happy nightmare that they are trying to sell to you?

This ain't nothing but the E.N.D. follow me into the sun and let your Saul be free

I once knew a man named Saul,
And together, we must have done it all
When an opportunity arose,
And I thought I knew what to do,
He’d do something different, and I’d do it too!

From sitting and staring to laughing and shouting,
From smoking and drinking to eating and chatting
From smiling and remembering to arguing and swearing
From bragging and lying to honesty and caring

From living and breathing to saying goodbye and leaving.

We did it all man, so never forget,
Never deny, never regret.
We’ll do it all again one day I’m sure,
So take it easy man, and for me, have one more pure.

Jitters

I’m going to an award ceremony tonight and I’m nervous. I’m nominated for Production New Comer of the Year. If I win, I’ll get a trophy, and I’ve always wanted a trophy. Well, I’ve always wanted to win a trophy – I was once going to buy Whitney Houston’s Smash Hit Award for some song or another which I saw in a dodgy shop in central London, but I decided against it. I wish I hadn’t now as that would have been fucking novelty, but still I wouldn’t have won it.

And I might win this.

I mean I won’t. The odds against are massive, and I should probably just be happy to be nominated, but I can’t help but think this will either be one of the best days of my life, or one of the biggest disappointments I’ve had in a while.

So if you happen to be reading this today, cross your fingers for me yeah?

Stupid Fucking Wednesday

I was in a good mood this morning. I woke up and thought “Fuck it, I may be still feeling a bit sick, but I’m gonna go to work, and work my butt off, that’ll be satisfying”. So I did. It wasn’t exactly satisfying, but its always better than sitting around wishing I wasn’t there. Still it was kinda ruined by my discover that a) I’m pretty much broke for the month and b) I’m probably not gonna get the pittance I thought my father had accidentally left me. So I’m a bit fucked off, but I thought “Can’t stumble at the first hurdle Justin”. So I carried on.

So then I thought, “I’ll rush home, do some shopping, do some cleaning, do some cooking, do some work on Magnus, then have an early night as any wholesome young man should”. Except the fucking bus didn’t come for an hour and a half. So I got home angry and deranged from hunger, and of course I have no money to buy food (or medicine for my lingering cold) and it turns out no food. Well no food that i can be bothered to use to make up a meal. And that was it. No more good mood.

It's funny how little things can fuck you up. Especially when you're a bit sick.

And then Nick let me have some of his dinner. Grated cheese on curry is alllllllllllllright. Nice one bruva!

Hello

So it’s been a while and I thought that maybe I should write something. Something free-style. So I’m just gonna write and see what comes out.

Once upon a time I was a frog and when I was a frog I was happy. Because I like jumping and eating flies and being put in jars, looked at and subsequently released. I was in the woods one day eating something crunchy, when this really ugly fatso came along and picked me up.

“Hello Fattie” I thought “I wonder if I’m going to have to kill you”. Because sometimes fatsos tried to eat me see. But she didn’t. Instead she kissed me and I became a prince. She thought that meant that I had to marry her as she had released me, but hell no. I gave her a good talking to about her excessive weight, tried eating a spider and then sat down to ponder my new non froggy life. After a while I got eaten by an army of flies, who were sick of my shit.

The end.

I think my subconscious is getting smarter.

When I’m working, the way I gauge whether or not I’m good at a task, is if I can do it while daydreaming. I’ll sit down, stare at the screen, start daydreaming about metal spiders or something, and expect my body to get busy doing my job. Sometimes part of my mind will have to join in too. And my voice. But my thoughts keep whiling away the time, pondering over an unrelated set of ideas in my head.

Because of this, my subconscious must be learning things. Like how to use Excel. The other night I had a dream in which I worked out how to do something for work which I had promised I would do, but had given no waking thought as to how yet. And when I woke I realised how genius an idea it was.

Now that’s not right is it. I mean it’s pretty fucking messed up really isn’t it? How can my mind work out how to better use a spreadsheet when it’s asleep? It just doesn’t make any fucking sense!

And how about this: the other night I had a dream which James Earl Jones narrated, and he used the phrase, “And although others might not have understood, for these four, things were quite as they should” which may not quite make sense, but as a poetic turn in a dream, I think it’s quite impressive. It’s like a dream I had long ago in which I was robbing someone’s flat and then planning on blowing it up, and the whole thing had Miss Dynamite-tee-hee (the song by the lady of the same name) as the soundtrack but with comedy words my subconscious brain had made up.

And for the clincher, something my subconscious did while I was awake; the other day I was in a shop and after having spent too long choosing my products, then spending too long deciding how to pay, and then too long packing, I decided for some reason to buy a scratch card. The second scratch card I have ever bought (I got my first on my 16th birthday), and the second and last scratch card I ever intend to buy (as I don’t like gambling much, but I like to try everything twice). And it won! £6. When I bought it, I was all like “I been intending on doing that for ages”, but in reality, it was something that just occurred to me. And as it was at such an awkward stage in my shopping experience (after all my time wasting, the guy behind the counter entirely ignored me for a good few minutes before acknowledging my desire to buy something else) that it seems strange that I would bother to go through the minor social embarrassment to get this thing that I didn’t even really want.

But it won. And I only bought it coz the part of my brain which I don’t control is a friggin’ genius.

Sophie

I didn't know her that well, but I would have once called her friend. She died last night, after battling with cancer from before I ever met her. I remember her as being pretty, enthusiastic, a bit crazy and completely cool. The world is worse off without her. Rest in Peace Sophie.

Fuck Yeah

I, like most people, am not that comfortable with praise. I don’t know what to say or how to act when it comes, and too much is embarrassing for me. Which is lucky, I suppose, as I’ve never really had that much praise. I haven’t really ever earned it see. I used to work hard when I was young, but never my hardest, and even that mostly faded out when I got to about 16.

And whether in my home, with my friends, at uni or at work, I have always been treated as an entry level fool. You know, just not quite on the same level as everyone else. Which is sad, but then as I said, I don’t exactly generally do anything to elicit respect. Often I’ll make myself the butt of a joke, just to make others laugh, so I have learnt to forgive easily people who look at me and think that they can treat me as they wish, because I really don’t matter that much.

It’s been a bit of a depressing life at times, trying to justify in my mind why some of the people I respect most don’t respect me, but overall I think it’s made me who I am. Which I am glad to say, for once, is a good thing. A fucking good thing. See, because for the first time ever, I have been promoted. For the first time ever, someone has looked at me and seen that I am better that some people. That I perhaps could be someone. That perhaps I am someone. And that is just the best fucking feeling of all. Even if it is uncomfortably like praise.

So here’s to me. Here’s to all the sleeping and swearing and rebelling I did to try and stop myself from having an office job. Here’s to not trying hard at pretty much everything. Here’s to not respecting myself, my image, my life, my health or my career. Here’s to finding something I finally like doing. And here’s to doing it motherfucking well.

Thank god, I finally made something of myself. I know it’s not much, but it’s a start.

Silence is easy

I guess that’s why they call it morning. Because you wake up and you see the death of night. The death of all that potential fun. In the darkest dark you can see yourself, all fucked up in a mirror, swaying and not puking in the sink you hold onto. In the blackest black you can drink til you pee down an alley, you can swear as loud as you want, you can scream and cry and laugh and everyone knows how you’re feeling. But in the day you quiet yourself down. You try not to laugh too loud or swear too much. You die a little just by being alive. You speak properly and get things done. You live a life more ordinary so that when it gets dark, or at least when you can’t hold out no more, you have the bucks to go have fun. You know that you can blow all the money in your pocket coz there is more coming next month. So you blow it. And it blows back.

But is it worth it? The little death you feel every day when someone asks you what you got up to last night, and you know you can’t tell them? When someone says “How’s it going?” everyday, and everyday you say “yeah yeah alright” because neither of you actually gives a fuck about your present state and you know if you thought about how you actually were, you might have more than 3 words to say, and that would be a fucking repetitive waste of time. Is it worth being so quiet so that you can afford to be so goddamn motherfucking loud?

I think it might be. I been broke all my life and now I’m not. But I do have a fucking stupid hair cut so who knows.

Fishy died. He just wanted to live life to the max and he died. He lived life in a little glass bowl and he died. He had absolutely nothing to do every single day and he died. He killed himself trying to escape. I think there is a lesson in that, but I don’t know what it is, and I’m pretty certain that he didn’t either. I’ll miss him, even though he was a bastard.

I'll be gone

for a week. When I get back, be nice to me please.

I can’t be bothered to explain why I like Big Brother right now, I just do

Last week did you watch the Big Brother n-word incident? I did, and let me tell you, I thought it was the most offensive piece of television I have ever seen.

Not offensive due to the word. I do find that offensive, but the way she used it, it was obviously not intended for offence but instead as a stupid white posh girls attempt at bonding with her new black friends. What I did find offensive was the Big Brother contestants talking about the issue. Offensive to my ears and brain.

They are all so fucking annoying that when Emily, Charlie and Shabnam all went into the garden to discuss it, and all three talked continuously for 5 minutes, I literally felt a little sick. It was the most annoying conversation I have ever heard. And then at the end Emily kept saying “Now we’ve discussed it, it’s fine, it’s over”. They didn’t discuss anything. They didn’t get near to discussing anything. Unless you count getting some old newspapers, shredding them and throwing them in the air so that it rains news the same as being up to date on current events.

I have never felt that one moment of TV has damaged both my brain and society a little bit all at once before, but this did. The ad break immediately after she said it was probably the most the n-word has been used in casual conversation throughout Britain all at once for 50 years. If you’ve seen the South Park episode “It Hits the Fan” you may see that there are other hidden consequences of such an event too.

Anyway, even if the nation did join together for such an awful uttering during that ad break, I hope that they also joined me after the ad break in giving Emily the finger when she appeared in the diary room. I think she deserved it. Not for being a racist, but for being a moron, and a posh one at that.

Stupid bitch, fuck off our TV screens. Oh you have already? Nice one bruv, I knew you wouldn’t let me down.

Flying Bastard

“Get away from me. I don’t want to cut you” I say to my love as I manically wave my 6 inch blade around. I’m panicking, and sweating, and almost naked, but I know that worse times are soon to come. A beast has invaded my home. It has terrified my woman. It has left me with a life or death decision. I open the door and face my enemy.

I can’t see it
But I can feel it
I can hear it
I can fear it

It flies at me and I scream with all the horror and rage I can muster. I sound like a little girl. The girl cowering behind me strengthens my resolve to not be defeated. To not let this mythical enemy get the upper hand. So I re-enter the room and search so I can destroy. It is not there. Not gone but hidden.

I hear the buzz
I feel the fear
It must be here
It must be near

In the light it stands. It burns. It dies. So drawn to the holy bright that it fears not for its own safety until it is too late. It gets trapped by the light and melts away its fear and flesh until it moves no more. All that is left for me to do it stab it and claim its death as my own. So I do and scream and laugh and shake until we have disposed of its body and are safe once more.

Just before midnight, when you’re a bit mashed, sleepy and relaxed, the last thing you want is for a Maybug to fly into your room and freak out you and your girlfriend.

Party Animals

So I’ve had a lot of fun recently. And this week I’ve been seeing lots of people I haven’t seen in a while. I unfortunately didn’t take any pictures of them. Instead, here are some animals. The fake antelope head is my favourite.

Spiderman, Spiderman, does whatever... he's paid to do

I just saw Spiderman 3 and it has made me ask the question: why can’t Hollywood make third films? I don’t wanna go historical or nothing (what with Godfather 3 and probably lots of others sucking), but last year both X-Men 3 and Mission Impossible 3 sucked ass to an incredible level after the first 2 of both had been alright or quite good. And the thing is, this year is gonna be filled with number 3s so I’m pretty fucking worried that they will all suck too.

I know this is gonna look like geek rage (I am not a Spiderman geek by the way – yes I watched the cartoon when I was little and yes I own a Spiderman plastic cup – but my brother gave it to me ok!), but I have made a list of questions you should ask yourself after having seen Spiderman 3. They don’t probe many of the main problems with this film, but they are what confused the fuck out of me as I left the cinema. And please don’t answer these questions with comic book answers, because this is not the comic book Spiderman. All I am asking for is some consistency within this multi-million pound Hollywood film. All I am asking for is it not to suck. But it did.

Anyway, don’t read this if you haven’t seen the movie, as it will ruin it:

- Why wasn’t Mary Jane wearing her waitressing outfit at the end of the movie?
- Why did she stop her job when her boyfriend came in (who she must see every fucking day)?
- Why did the Goblin guy only fire two rockets at the fucking huge Sandman, when he happily fired loads at tiny little Spiderman?
- Why didn’t the Green Goblin lay a trap for Spiderman when he clearly knew he was coming (coz he had the suit on under his clothes)?
- Why did Spiderman try to take his black suit off at that church? Why not at home?
- Why couldn’t he get that suit off when he had been taking it off and on previously with ease?
- Why did Spiderman keep taking his mask off at random in the street? Does he not understand the concept of a secret identity?
- Why were there little kids up at the end of the film, when it was just before dawn?
- Why didn’t the explosion next to the Green Goblins head blow his head clean off?
- What happened to all the falling debris in the film?
- Why did those metal poles make so much noise at the end of the film?
- Why did he not try to capture the Sandman at the end, just because he had apologised?
- Why didn’t Spiderman try use a hose on the Sandman as water had worked before?
- Why did Spiderman not question at all where the black suit came from?
- Why did the black suit hang out in his flat for a few weeks before enveloping him?
- Why didn’t the black suit go on Mary Jane when it was on the back of the moped?
- Why were there so many single tears in the film? Seriously, there were more single tears than hand severings in Star Wars 3 (which was the exception to the rule about the third film sucking)
- Why did Spiderman forget he could make webbing for a few seconds when he was strung up at the end by Venom?
- Why did the Green Goblin jump in the way of his snowboard thingy instead of wacking Venom with any of the building materials lying around like Spiderman eventually did?
- Why did Venom mention he had spidey sense but then not have it seconds later when Mary Jane blapped him with that cinder block (which by the way was a fucking wicked shot)
- Why did all the child actors in that movie suck?

It’s late and I can’t be bothered to continue. This list of questions probably only scratches the surface, but I’ll let the millions of other disgruntled spidey fans pose the others to each other.

In conclusion this film sucked. I am upset I gave it my opening weekend bucks. At least Bruce Campbell was in it anyway hey.

Gotta keep moving

So with everyone perpetually talking about house prices being on the up and up, I thought it was finally time to move. I have been stuck in this little cell in my momma’s house for way to long, and much as I love the home cooking, I think it is finally time for me to spread my wings and feed myself.

We started looking in Clapham two weeks ago on a sunny Saturday afternoon. Having been out all night, and having dressed appropriately for the cold of night time, I was wearing my duvet sized parka and my not-so-tough hoodie. Which meant that I was sweating. A lot. And of course being out all night doesn’t stop you from getting a hangover, no matter what your friends say. In fact quite the opposite. It’s like when you start drinking early in the day and you get hungover before dinner time without ever having gone to sleep.

So anyway, there we were, the 5 of us, wondering up Clapham High Street (I assume that’s what that road is called anyway – I never pay attention to where I am in London thanks to the wonders of the tube being able to get me home no matter how lost I am). It was hot, I felt sick and we had estate agents to see. When we had met up in the McDonalds (for a bit of childish dutch courage) we all tried to conjure up places where we thought estate agents were. We could only think of one between us, so that is what we headed for.

More fool us. There were dozens. Hundreds. Thousands even. Every few yards was another glass window filled with pictures of other peoples homes, and just behind them were the best paid salespeople around. Estate Agents. Now I’m not one to judge (well I am, but I try not to be), but it is the general consensus that these people are scum. They make you rent somewhere just a bit worse that you want, so they can get the commission, and so that they can rent a place that you would have liked to someone who is slightly more snobby than you (so that its just a bit worse than they would have wanted too). And how do they do this? By making you feel like your house hunt is hopeless. Yes, despite the fact that the property market is booming, there is in fact nowhere to live. Nowhere reasonable priced anyway. So after going in a million or so Estate Agents, and being told a million or so times that there was just nowhere suitable at the moment, we gave in and decided to go to Foxtons.

Now personally I don’t have anything against Foxtons. I think their use of Mini’s is good idea, but that probably only stems from the fact that the number 256 (yes they all have a number if you look) works the Richmond area, and for one reason or another, that is my lucky number. But anyway, all my future live-in-friends hate Foxtons. HATE THEM. They all have stories about being supposedly ripped off by this firm, although I suspect that they actually just don’t like the new Mini’s (“It’s just not the same”) and take it out on these home sellers.

We went in anyway, because the least hungover of our group proclaimed “Well at least we’ll get free beer”. And free beer is, of course, always awesome. I had seen those little fridges stacked with them time after time, and I had always wanted a piece of the action. Oh yeah baby. So we went in, we filled in our details, we looked at the boards, we told them what we wanted… and they told us they had nothing for us. We dejectedly sat around in their air conditioning for a minute wondering where to go from here. The least hungover of us finally (and boldly) went to the reception and talked in general about properties in the area until at last… drinks were offered! Hallelujah!

Except that they only gave us two bottles. Of coke. Between five of us. Estate agents really are scum.

New Millenium Man

So I've been thinking about this on and off recently, and I've come up with a brief criteria for what makes a new millenium man (or woman). So far I have come up with the following ten:

- You have bought something on ebay and then sold it again without ever having used/wanted it
- You have lied on wikipedia while drunk
- You have emailed someone who is in the same room as you (not including while at work of course)
- You have given something a bad rating online in the hope that it will teach the author a much needed lesson despite the fact that you quite liked whatever it was you were rating
- You have used an internet phone to demonstrate to someone something that you both already knew, just to prove it works
- You have many more friends on Facebook than you do in real life
- While watching TV you wikipedia anything you don't believe and tell everyone you are with the truth behind the show
- You have gone to a website that you know will infuriate you just so that you can swear at all its users in the forum
- You have found random pictures of yourself on a strangers websites
- You have been turned down for a job because your potential employer found out so much awful shit about you online

I only qualify for less than half which makes me still a bit old school. Fuck yeah.

Oh and look - I'm moving:

What goes up, must come down

So it's been like a month since I last posted, and a fuck load more than a months worth of living has gone on since then. Woo-motherfucking-hoo! There has been a whole shit load of smiles being passed around recently...

Although there was also a Friday the 13th and a whole incident with the Police so things have been a bit fucked too...
But whatever else may have happened, at least I took the best ever picture of Nick. He apparently felt much worse than he looked at this time. Ha ha.

And I got a real job! Fuck yeah!

Allergic to work

I have a job starting tomorrow. Woo! Back in the rat race it is for me. Which makes me think – how come I don’t get sick when I’m not working? I don’t mean pulling a sickie sick, I mean actually ill? Because it seems to me that after about 2 weeks in every job I get I get sick for a few days. And I mean sick sick. I think it may be to do with the Underground and how dirty the air is in the trains, but I somehow doubt that’s actually true. Well we’ll see how that works out this time anyway.

Oh and here’s a picture of some jelly babies enjoying a Jacuzzi in a chocolate pie.

Signs

There are signs everywhere. Most of them are informative, but others meanings are a bit veiled.
Like these. Why are they there? What are they a reflection of? Not windows that's for damn sure. Their meaning is a mystery that I have pondered all my life, every time I go into my back garden on a sunny day for a ... cigarette...

This sign at Richmond Station is a bit easier to miss but a little more clear in its meaning. No parking at any time in bus lanes - unless you are Batman.

This sign was virtually unmissable though. It clearly indicates that Dave is Jewish. He was forced to wear it for three months by these Nazi's who convinced him they were in charge. I thought it was over the top, but he apparently quite liked it.

Oh what a night

So it was the much beloved Emma Chandlers birthday on Friday and despite having a great time, I can barely remember it. Funnily the photos that I appear to have taken of it barely seem to remember it either...so I'm going to 'improvise' the story they tell"Hello and welcome to the Chancellors birthday bash. I am your host Boggly Eyed Man, and this is my sidekick VeryShortButStandingOnAChair Girl. We hope you have very nice time this evening" Said Boggly Eyed Man
"Yes I hope you do. Now bugger off, me and Boggly Eyed Man have to get it on, and I can't do that whilst standing on a chair now can I?" said VeryShortButStandingOnAChair Girl
"But wait, what do they call you when you're not standing on a chair VeryShortButStandingOnAChair Girl?" I naively asked
"Lisa" She replied
So I gave Lisa a hug and all was well. I soon convinced her that Boggly Eyed Man wasn't the guy for her and she repented her previous love and wandered off in look of booze and the Chancellor.
Meanwhile someone had glued Joe's tongue to his chin, and after trying to pull it off I had accidentally stuck my hand to my chin also. We were in dire straights but eventually we convinced the DJ to let us use his decks as a kind of make-shift saw and cut my hand free, and Joe's tongue ... off
Which he clearly wasn't too pleased about. Still it meant that I could spend a couple quiet minutes talking about myself in an animated fashion. Which was nice. Joe left after a while to find a deaf lady who would complete him now he was mute, so I continued my tirade of self approval to Scott.
Who it turns out wasn't that interested. I let him sleep though as it was just nice to have someone to talk to who hadn't been paying attention to the whole turntable blood bath that I had convinced Joe to take part in. Saul on the other hand had seen the whole thing and couldn't stop smiling about it.
"Dude, that was awesome. I never knew you could spin a record so fast. And when Joe's tongue just went flying into the crowd that was the grossest thing ever. Dave said he saw it fly into someones drink. That is fucked up man, just imagine eating a tongue by accident!"
"Actually" Lydia chirped up "Human tongue is quite delicious. Scott cooked me some while we were in South Africa. Didn't you darling? Scott? Scott? Wake up!" But alas, I had bored the poor man into a coma. At least now I could steal his beer.
"Hey fella" said Glenn at the crucial moment of my booze theft "You'll never believe what just happened".
"A tongue landed in your drink" Saul said and laughed heartily
"How the fuck did you know that?" He asked Saul but he was laughing so much by now that he was hiccuping and no good to anyone.
"Can I...err see it" I asked quietly thinking that perhaps it would be best if I gave Joe his tongue back. For his birthday or Christmas or something.
"Nah mate sorry, it's always been a Devine family tradition that we eat all tongues we find. It's for good luck with the....
"Was it nice?" Lydia swiftly interrupted, looking to prove a point that she hadn't really made
"No" said Glenn. "It was fucking disgusting". Lydia was sad as not only was she wrong, but also as Scott's hand seemed to be dissolving slightly in his sleep.
"And a bit halluuuuciiiiinaaaaageeeeniiiic.... I thiiiiiiink...." Said Glenn as he started massaging the table. "I feel alllllllllllllll blluuuuuuurrrrrryyyyyy"
"HALLUCINGENS" Scott said as he snapped awake. "What the fuck happened to my hand?", he said as he quickly hid it under the table. Lydia looked pleased as a plum that her man was finally awake again. And that we were leaving. Little did she know that I had glued his other hand to his ear while he was sleeping. For safe keeping and that.
And that was the end of our wonderful evening. I went home and was apparently very drunk and happy, as is demonstrated by this photo taken by Kathy.
Of course in the morning I wasn't so drunk or happy. In fact I was so hungover that I needed to wear sunglasses. Indoors.
But at least the nice bacon people had decided that today was indeed the day to screw all the rules and fill my belly with pork goodness with a ridiculous offer.

The end.
PS Happy Birthday Emma!

Happy Happy Sad

If you could read tea leafs you would see that this means I'm happy. And perhaps slightly evil...

If you look very carefully, you can see a smiley face randomly made from hair on my bathroom floor

This building reminds me of Freddy's tattoo

Something old, something new, something fucked...

This is me after my first ever actual (illegal in a warehouse) rave.

This is me just before my first ever ("Fuck it, I need a..") pint on my own

This was funny at 4:30am on Jims birthday

A guy comes over from America to visit London and see the sights. He arrives on a Friday night, so it doesn’t take him long to realise that to experience British culture he really needs to experience British beverages. So he goes to a bar and has a couple London Prides, chases them down with a couple scotch whiskeys. He carries on and drinks a couple Guinness’, a couple ales and a couple bitters. He even has a few ciders.

Unaware of our drinking customs, when closing time comes it hits him as a total surprise and he stumbles out into the street not sure what to do next. He tries to go into a couple clubs but is refused due to his massively drunk state. After a while he realises that his biggest worry isn’t where he is going to go next, but where he is going to pee. He looks and looks and can’t find a public urinal, or even someplace quiet and secluded. He finally gives up and just stops and pees against the wall he is nearest to.

“Ahhhhhhhh” he says as he starts to go. He is interrupted almost immediately however by a firm tap on the shoulder.

“Excuse me sir, what do you think you are doing” a rather large policeman says to him. The American tries his hardest and stops what he is doing and zips up his flies. He explains the best he can in his state that he is on holiday and he has been caught short and that he is really sorry etc etc.

Suprisingly the policeman takes pity on the man and tells him that he too has been caught short on holiday and a friendly policeman took pity on him too. So he tells the American to follow him, takes him round the corner, unlocks a gate and lets the yanky in. “Go ahead son, pee here all you like”.

The American is astounded, he has been led to a beautiful garden filled with perfectly cut grass and an array of every beautiful flower under the sun. He pees and pees and pees, covering everything in sight, and when he is finally done he turns and asks the policeman “What is this place? Paradise?”

The policeman replies with a smile “Nah mate, it’s the French embassy”

I'm busy

So this is gonna be some week. I gotta finish this issue of Magnus, work out what needs to be done next with Magnus, make space for Kathy to move in for a bit, help her move, work out what stuff to throw away, sell stuff on ebay, save a friendship, work out stuff about moving out, finish my first part of my book, work on my momma’s book and write a blog entry. Well at least this is one off the list. I’m so motherfucking efficient.

Sometimes it's hard to get started

When I think about writing these days, I feel a bit sick. I’m not sure why that is. Maybe it’s my version of writers block, maybe it’s because the last thing I wrote was about my dad, maybe it’s because I was out drinking last night. Who fucking knows. Who fucking cares.

Well I do obviously, otherwise I wouldn’t be writing through the nausea.

So what to write about… hmmm… well the sun is shining and it’s a new year. I feel worried and afraid of what the future holds but also confident that it will be pretty good. Well vaguely confident.

I know, how about a joke… Two chickens walk into a bar and the barman says “FUCK OFF! NO FUCKING CHICKENS ALLOWED! THIS IS THE LAST TIME I’M FUCKING TELLING YOU!”

And the chickens said “What do we care? We’re chickens and therefore lack the ability to lift and drink from glasses so cannot join in the general merriment of your establishment anyway”

The barman was in a rage by then so he was like “THAT’S FUCKING IT! CHICKEN PIES FOR LUNCH” and he grabbed his cleaver and went after them.

The chickens just sat there and said “You will not have chicken pies for lunch as it is already dinner time”

But he killed them anyway.

Moral of the story: If you’re a chicken, don’t talk back to the man with the cleaver. Or perhaps it should be if you find talking chickens in your pub, don’t kill them as they are motherfucking rare.

Either way I don’t feel so nauseous anymore. Woo!