Her film career I’m afraid is in the tank,
It’s Oscar award winner Hilary Swank
What…? What is it? Oh yeah, I’m an arsehole.
This past week livened up a bit with a flying trip to Frankenfurter, well known airport stopover and home to several banks that sound like they would crotch-punch your grandma if they caught her eating figs. All the lads, like Landesbank Hessen-Thuringen, DZ Bank and Hypothekenbank. Like a warm mug of cocoa being poured directly into your ears that last one.
I was there on “business-guy” time so wasn’t able to eat pre-apportioned processed pork though I did have some pork dim sum (dim sum dim)… wait a second. You crafty Germans sausaged me by the back door. GerMANS!!
After an very early morning and a deathly semi-sleep on the morning flight out of London I arrived into the city off the train (on time unsurprisingly). The first thing I noticed was that as with every city, if you come in by train you are going to be festooned by the druggiest alkiest so-and-sos the city has to offer. In Frankfurt, there was a whole lot of people who looked either very trendy or very stabby depending on the local house prices.
Apparently this year it’s the Moroccans who are ruling the 100 metres around Frankfurt with an iron (albeit minty) fist.
This guy is their leader.
Incidentally, to find the above image I googled Fez Hat Man Stock Photo. I heartily endorse this google search for all the insane stock photos it turned up.
Honest to God, do yourself a favour and click the below.
This evening has taken a turn and I am currently watching PS I Love You. Hence my vindictive start to this particular post. The truth is that Hilary Swank is a pretty lady who is good at her job. The other one though…
Ladies and Gentlemen, I am pleased to announce Mr Gay Porno 2007 IS…
This rasscloth (I’m reading a Jamaican gangster book) chicken-f’er is the worst thing to happen to humanity since the Belgians looked southwards to the Congo and thought to themselves…”Maybe they’ll just work for free.”
Gerard Butler, AKA “the man of today” from those dreadful adverts for Hugo Boss stinkjuice (where they hope you’ll forget the best movie he’s been in since the horror unfolding in front of me was Dragons: Gift of the Night Fury) is currently Oirishing it up in front of me like Darby O’Pissing Gill.
Alright things are getting weird. In a scene where GerTurd Burglar is singing in Whelans (pronounced as Wheylans because they aren’t giving an inch) one of my college enemies is gurning like a chimp who’s put his winkle in a beehive over his shoulder.
Don’t look that up, it’s Jamaican and gross.
The coming week has me in Lille and Helsinki for 4/5 days which is good for the travel bucket list and my airmiles, but bad for sleep and my consumption of diet-friendly fare. In the BA 2nd division lounge they have bacon sandwiches and pastries beside some fruit. I would argue sarcastically.
Um could I get… a grape please. No that’s all.
The UK right now is disgusting. Not because the more <clears throat> conservative members of society are pushing for Brexit much like a chicken pushes little ovals of breakfast out of its chickeny rump. Worst part of that is people think those fart-spheres taste good. I even considered getting a picture of a breakfast for the above that was sans egg. But I thought that would mark me out (Mark Boyle me out) as a egg weirdo. Then I wrote all this.
Okay, I’m an egg weirdo.
Anyway my adopted home is disgusting because everything feels like a soupy goop of my own sweat and aerilaised slow-moving Thames stank water. Merciful fate it is then that I have spent this Monday out in Lille on a team building day for my not-a-normal-job.
After some meetings and the like we had a couple of glasses of wine with dinner (topped with an almond brandy dessert assault on our collective faculties) before retiring to the yard to shoot crossbows and blowdarts at clay geese. As we waited for our turn on the thoroughly frightening apparatus in a barn somewhere in the French countryside and darts slammed into inanimate migratory fowl, above us nervous pigeons flitted to and fro observing the carnage and energetically voiding their bowels on me.
After the merriment and a solid murdering had been meted out to all the animal replicas, we retired to the bar to watch the instructor stumble about the lawn as the sun set trying to find his last arrow lest his darling wife beat him around the neck with a belt for arriving home one arrow short.
As a stereotypical Frenchie he even did the owhoheehoheehoh laugh and frequently said “I am but a Frenchman,” pretty much the only English sentence he managed with much fluency. Eyes swimming with almond brandy made me think he could possibly have suffered to learn a few more sentences of crossbow etiquette 101 but there you go.
“Remember guys, APTAIYH. Always Put The Arrow In Your Hand.”
He then found a segway and is currently humming up and down the driveway, stopping off to scatter promotional dwarf pens on our table. Even though the patio was crowded with furniture, he slowly crept in on his erect mobility unit (EMU) scraping and banging off twenty tables and chairs to get to us to tell us we couldn’t have a ride on it. Then he rode back banging off every table and chair for a second time.
It was glorious.
In other news Meg remarked that her “main man” got a little wet today. Assuming she perhaps meant her boyfriend of 7 years that she has known for more than 10 and has recently agreed to marry since he gave her in indestructible pointy pebble he couldn’t afford I turned to her expectantly.
She meant a basset hound called Dean. He has a social media following bigger than Lady Gaga’s and in Meg’s own words is a “fine gentleman.”
If we get a dog, I’m gonna be living under a bridge in a week.
Bomboclodoner of Leek