When I asked him how things were going, you could say he was an over-confider
It’s movie-toxin omni-twerp, Rob “The Nob” Schneider
I just say Nob because anybody called Rob (the only name more popular in my year of birth than Mark) was immediately called The Nob. Even if they were nice. Thank goodness my name didn’t rhyme with anything.
Though Mrs. Boyle was probably cruel enough as a nickname.
BerppahdeBERPPP! And like a particularly buoyant turd, I’m back baby.
After almost a month on hiatus the Toner of Leek has rid himself of all the filthy trappings of relaxation. The baubles of sloth. The frippery of his atrophied idle hands which embarassingly sinks below the pant line at your aunts birthday party for innappropriate but well-deserved scratch.
Just to be clear these are things I am no longer associated with, though Meg will still anyone that listens I have the shrivelled cabbage-eating hands of a carny.
“Now I know you’re not looking at mah chicky. Buckwheat, peck his eyes out.”
So what’s been the fly juice since last we spoke I hear you bashfully ask. You’re absolutely adorable you know that? But if you cross me…
The summer only really kicked off three weeks before it ended as I travelled to Finland for workboy times. I had decided to stay near the airport as Helsinki is in actual fact quite far away from my house so my time exploring the city would have been minimised to a quick perusal of the recycling bins at the train station before turning tail and heading back.
So I went along to a work barbecue. There were huge slabs of deep marinated skirt steak. Pig middles. And a barrel full of flame-roasted shrimp the size of Don Cheadle’s man-parsnip. He calls it Dong Cheadle.
The next day was workmode but once I was done I was all set to luxuriate in my crapulence in the airport lounge. Look it up, it’s kosher. Unfortunately I wasn’t able to fully enjoy my Finnish wine and bulk-bought minipretzels in the style to which I have become accustomed. Stressors included a last minute phone call, writing up a final draft of a report and a highly autistic kid who was happily smashing his head into a wooden panel as I tried to dampen the intensity of my concerned glances at his mother. She was getting into the soup. Can hardly blame her.
As a young boy I often dreamed of being a cup of soup. This cup.
I feel like they would have been well-served by acknowledging that soup can function as a snack. The tagline writes itself. Christ even have a meal deal with Shaquille O’Neal. Cop a feel and make him squeal. That’s the soup competition in prison.
My talents are wasted.
So I flew back the three hours to London, arriving with just enough time to have a full and hearty evening of packing. For verily, the next morning Meg and I departed for the True North Strong and Free. With a national currency known as the TimBit and the Head of State recognisable by their Canadian Crown of hockeyplayer’s molars studded into a maple syrup-lacquered moose antler, Canada is a nation of contrasts.
This was my third time in Canada in about 18 months, so I’m a real dab hand at… that. I’ll admit I just wanted to say dab hand. Because it’s weird.
This is normally where I might include an image illustrating my point. But apparently Dab Hand is quite a common name for both fake penises and bongs. So just imagine that here.
Or if you’ve got a crummy imagination, just enjoy a brief reprise for R-Money.
Meg and I got to the airport in jig time and we wandered straight through security like Drake or Bonnie Tyler or one of them other celebrity arseholes. As it happened I could sneak Meg into the airport lounge much like a grubby Leonardo DiCaprio street urchin, up from steerage with all the Guiness swigging wastrels to the Captains table with Billy Zane.
She kept reaching out to pick something up and then pausing hand hovering in the air while she looked for me, waiting for the inevitable nod. She had a light pre-flight lunch of M&Ms and Baileys, like a rockstar.
I sampled some Drambuie without ice and regretted it more than the time I asked a lady with a potbelly in a Japanese bar, “Baby… in stomach?”
We then walked out, filled with chocolate and sweetened boozes onto the plane when we got the best surprise you can get when getting onto a plane. “Please turn left.”
UPGRADE! Like finding a bucket of fried chicken under a pile of dirty pants, we happened upon a real tasty meat-treat. In the shape of premium economy. Not quite Business Class. But definitely not cattle class.
Not that cattle aren’t the hero of their own story. They just don’t get the leg room we do.
That seems an obvious point at which to leave our boozed-up heros, hurtling through space with our heads on cushions on a chemical toilet wall on 10,000 ft of North Atlantic air.
Poetry ‘n’ ting.
In other news Meg and I have been battering it with the life admin. The washing machine has been whirling like a stanky wet dervish since we came back and bar a bit of jetlag (and associated conciliatory curry) we have been going to bed at good Christian hours of the evening and eating more thick green leaves than a Californian cult leader. Cult leaders eat healthy. Anything as fun as leading a cult, they want to stick around as long as possible to see how good it gets.
DO THE HUSSLE! Also, no more bras, we’re done with them.
I have also started running again and as well as a blog, podcast, facebook page and twitter account, I am also now the food photo-taking owner of an honest to God Instagram account. And boyos, I’m bloody hooked. Not a scabby pigeon goes by with out me taking a photo, dawbing a filter over it and thinking I’m all deep and soulful.
I’m a real fancy boy now. You wouldn’t believe I’m the same guy that used to soak his runners in Dettol.
Well you would. You’ve always hated me.
Tyler of Leek