He’s the kind of talented perv who gives his junk nicknames
It’s narcotic honking, 4-at-a-time superfreak Rick James!
I’m very cold, which means I’m home.
Meg is solo-bolo right now, Bailey’s in her cereal and pyjamas till tomorrow. Risky business, but with less forcing Katie Holmes to give birth in silence. Look it up!
I, on the other hand when quizzed by her about my Sunday activities recounted the following:
- woke up late, the house was empty and I was very cold
- ate some canapés for breakfast then we went to the shop
- then we went to a different shop
- then it was 5 o’clock and no one had eaten lunch.
Meg described this as the most Boyle day ever.
This is leg one of my multi-national Christmas odyssey, with my exercise gear firmly wedged in a bottom drawer at home, I have given over the all of my spirit to hazardously rapid weight gain. I’m on the HRWG programme. Better than when I was on the Tralee Underage Runners Diet programme.
They called us the turd eaters.
Last week was largely uneventful, I had a day wandering the nation’s capital trying to find suitable accommodations for my employers. In their finery. It was a lot of legwork in rather inhospitable inner city council estate type environs. Empty playground. Broken child’s doll on a carousel, turning slowly in the gale. Squeak. Squeak. Mary in number two died, the cats ate her. Squeak. Barry in number 5 is drinking again, lost the kids. Squeak. I’m a mouse with leprosy and I dump in all your dried foods.
Squeak squeak squeak.
To review, English cities are all mostly awful, London included. About 70% of the place is an uninhabitable hellscape. That percentage just happens to be relatively low considering the competition. On the other end of the scale, you got your Bradfords.
And you can keep your Bradfords
Craphole radio, all craphole all the time. You could probably cite the same percentages about Ireland but in terms of how old all the buildings are. My 85 year old grandfather drove me around an estate he built in the 70’s and it’s noticeable how relatively modern the buildings look in comparison to many of those around my home town.
For the sake of context he is, as I type, in his naturally preferred environment, intimidating someone attempting to accomplish manual labour under his derisive glare.
“Maybe? There is no fucking maybe!? What are YOU going to DO!”
That was five minutes ago.
Meg and I have been masquerading as London dandies by wandering around the swishest central residential areas of London (Belgravia and Pimlico) and pretending like we belong. Incidentally a “real London dandy” was what I was accused of being when while in Namibia I turned up to give my speech in a full blue suit with brown leather shoes. This was among a coterie where there was a man with a stick who was top dude because he had a stick and then he hit people with his stick. Was pretty jealous to be honest. Whackeroo! That’s the way I’d run MY country.
On our wanders, we met a Santa who was stunningly lifelike. Gruesomely so. His face was too big, like his head had sucked up a bunch of krill from the sea and was digesting it through it’s massive baleen. Sorry, still watching a lot of David Attenborough. Anyway, bighead Santas of the world, get help. Don’t be going around freaking out kids an me with your puffed up face and head like a pumpkin. A puffkin head. Medical attention. Get it.
As anyone who watches House knows it’s never lupus. Except this time.
We also noticed a huge agglomeration of Middle Eastern restaurants and and accents as we traipsed about Knightsbridge trying not to look so shabby that a hotel concierge might give us “the broom.” One impeccably dressed auld fella let out a casual “A salaam alaikum”to a chum as they walked into a cafe with very sweet drinks in very blingy cups as we passed by. Yeh see? No matter creed, colour or gender, we’re all just people.
As long as all the people involved are wealthier than Satan. Wealthier than a Michael Jackson blackmailer. Wealthier than Warren Buffet and Elon Musk’s oblong mixed-seed love child. Surname: Musk Buffet. Which interestingly is a pretty accurate description of my University bedsheets.
Today in my home town I saw a guy with huge swollen ears. They looked like they were the duty-bound ear-engineers that refused to flee the nuclear reactor because they had taken a pledge dammit and their ear-wife was out there somewhere and Janey needs that chance. I love you ear-baby!
In short, they looked like a frigging massacre. Puffed up like big puffkin ears after being rubbed around in some Africanised terror-nettles.
It reminded me of something I noticed a great deal as a youngster, that in mid-week you would see the ugliest people around town. Just cave dwellers and the criminally unviewable. Then around Christmas and Easter, the basement dwelling buffsters and boobarellas strutted out for a couple of days of sunlight before climbing back into their youthfulness pods to prepare for another school break. My theory was originally that they were the college folks and emigrés back for the holidays for visits and ice-cream. Increasingly though having wandered around my home town at all times of the year… I suspect I was just out of school and my brain missed the many hours spent staring at girls.
I was pretty subtle though.
In other news, I am looking forward to a good few days in Whistler embarrassing myself by failing to slide gracefully in a thousand different slide-y Alpine pursuits. I have been fully equipped by my mother with “technical” underpants, many of which have lain unused since my foray up to the Inuit in Nunavut and will provide much needed padding as I slam my joints repetitiously into the icy floor underfoot.
I am trying to keep up start of the week publications but next Sunday and Monday I will be all jetlagged and goosey, so be forewarned. I’ll sound a bit concussed.
Toner of Squeak