He had the tie and was right time right place,
It’s Chevy “was that what passed for handsome in 1982” Chase
Jeanie, look at that hole in his chin! Maybe it’s where he kept snacks. Bombay mix. A refreshing handful of grapes. You could really fight a hunger with the space in that pit.
Well hello fancy festive folk! The second week of December is upon us like someone standing too close to us on a train (it’s called foreshadowing) rummaging in his (because let’s be honest with ourselves, we’re picturing a guy here and with good reason, we’re gross) little pants. We hope counting his change for the parking lot. Ick.
December is a scumbag.
In honour of the crucifixion of Santa, Meg and I played hooky for a day and wandered into Londinium to squander some money on consumerist expressions of emotion. When will comrade Corbyn rid us of these capitalist shackles and let us gift homemade lengths of sackcloth as was surely Friedrich Engels’ dream?
Actually we like this tradition and do this every year. Take a weekday in December off from work, sleep in like we’re coming down from a glue-sniffing bender and kill off our Christmas shopping list in the overheated hallways of the humanity-clogged department stores.
London does do Christmas right, with baller light displays, the Trafalgar Square tree, small platoons of amateur choirs, 12 days of Christmas pubcrawlers and the tousled suits of office Christmas parties out too long and half thinking they should tell Shirley in accounts what they REALLY think of her.
“I love you, but we’re both dreadful.” – for instance. If they’re being honest.
Why am I only finding about this now… it is ON!
It’s due in part to one of the manias that tends to afflict London and that is Oxford Street in December. The footpaths fill up with…. well bloody well everyone. Oxford Street is a bit of a weird one as on one side you have Selfridges (Jeremy Piven is suspended from the ceiling in a box filled with formaldehyde), House of Fraser, House of Niles (I’m hilarious) and several other super British sounding high street titans of retail.
Incidentally the row of department stores includes British Homestores which in classic British tradition was gutted for its pension fund by a guy with massive turkeytits that he likes to baste in butter and sun. The door is now closed on it which is for the best as it was a singularly depressing experience to pass its fetid threshold due to the whole place smelling like a old lady tights and looking like 1993.
God I’m such a pinko. Too much Corbyn on the radio that’s my problem.
I take it back dear leader. Lay your hands upon my evil head. Teach me the ways of tofu and repelling swing voters. And who did your “Corbyn” nametag? It’s so leadery.
After lunch in Ma Clucker (which I have called at various points Ma Plucker, Po Ducker and Chicken Bo) a fried chicken shack of some repute, we eventually called it a day just before a separate but similar mania took ahold of the city. Meg has never had to do the London to Weybridge battle that I suffer daily, but she did get a sense when after we got our seat and the aisles duly filled with professionally dressed cattle.
Then there was a clatter on the window like drunk pigeons bonking their heads on the glass. Bonk bonk bonk. BONK. MUCH MORE BONK!!
So started a rant for the ages. Some wienerless wonder had just realised that the train was full, as full as it was going to get in any case. This guy screamed at the windows, running up and down glowering at people and bellowing “MOVE DOWN! Make some room and move DOWN! Bonkbonkbonk. I am so bonk. Would you like a bonk? WHITHER SHALL WE BONK!?”
Did you know that William Ewart Gladstone’s father was also -BONK BONK
With every bonk he accessed all the terrible things that had happened in his life to make him the nightmare that he was. Maybe if Mommy hadn’t preferred BONK to me I wouldn’t be so BONK. That kind of thing. Eventually, it was like he was communing with the heavens with each BONK. Bonks themselves were proof of the divine and his way of joining, even making love to the whole universe and everything in it. BONK BONK BONK!
Now to be fair to the beleaguered Londoners who were not only looking at a standing room only journey in a roasting train but were being bellowed at for their trouble, they made a show of trying to shuffle even closer (they were already only two centimetres away from making babies) until he would realise this still meant he was missing his train and go for another round. Even the trainguard could see his Basil Fawlty incandescence on the platform and asked several times for people to move away from the doors.
You had to feel for the last guy whose little stink butt was hanging out the train door and was having to contemplate being pressed up against this feral poop-flinger.
Meg was agog.
Incidentally are you watching WestWorld? Jaysus now there’s a show. Anthony Hopkins acting like Grandpa Lecter and James Marsden gets murdered or cuckolded once an episode or you money back. Do yourself a favor, neglect your children and/or careers and pick up this show. I may be writing this while watching it. There is a distinct possiblity.
In other news myself and the boyos at 80DaysPodcast just finished off a Christmas podcast that will surely put you in the festive spirit. Though I do make a lot of racy jokes about Santa and his reindeer. The reindeer jokes are particularly racy. For example musing about the physiological reasons for Rudolphs red nose. The cold weather or an unwanted souvenir visit to a Thai brothel during the summer months? We can never really be sure. Anyway keep an eye on our feed for that and the first snibblings of season 2 which is also being recorded every time we can co-ordinate three schedules across a spread of continents. So fits and starts. Check the link below to find us!
Gladstoner of Leek