He’s drained the last drop from the handsome cannister,
It’s Meg is leaving me for Jaime “One-Armed Bandit” Lannister
I did that to him. Hands (or hand) off my woman Lannister! I’m a real toughy.
In the past week I wasn’t home a great deal, but Meg wasn’t as put-out as she has been on other occasions. Our internet has been upgraded and her normal stream of social media accounts of dogs (Dean the Basset, Kip the Corgi et al) has been sped up ot the point that the most familiar version of her to me is just her forehead appearing over the laptop screen with eyes melting with compassion, an audio track of Benny Hill over the sound of dogs farting on their owners with her cooing and muttering how “they’re gonna be sleepy.”
Estimate about an 8% chance I am going to wake up sewn into a dog costume.
There has been a lot of moving about for me in the last while, requiring many trips to the dry cleaner. It may or may not surprise you but I am not a tidy one. Meg refers to it as “the hurricane”, my old Mater “the bomb” but the reality is I like to have things to hand in case I want to use them. All the things. This lack of strict rules on what goes where extends to my clothing. In my paradigm for example, food goes on clothing especially cooking oil or any kind meaty grease. It just feels right to me.
As the internet proves, the list of things that people think “feels right” is long indeed.
This constant need for new, unbuttered shirts has meant I have had to change dry cleaner to someone on my commute in to London. He’s a bit enthusiastic. I mean, I’ll judge him on how he deals with my stinkables but I’ll still harbour a hard to shift suspicion he sucks all my buttons before they go in the machine.
Who thinks like that? What a sicko.
Part of my travels (or… travails, eh?) led me this week to an area named after the proposition that the underworld was poorly built and is starting to list and recede into the ground. Helsinki (eh?), capital of the Finnish (how do they know when they’ve started? … no f you!)nation. It might be stretching it to call it the Paris of the Northly-East but it had lots of weird islands, an endless amount of inner-city coastline and safe, pretty streets.
After walking around for an hour to stomp off the grog of a three hour flight and a heavy (Warren) buffet, I attempted to purchase a single beer to bring back to my room to accompany me as I read about warcrimes in little own areas of the world (podcast prep is such sour sorrow), but it was 21:12 in the evening so by the ancient laws of Fingerland, I was s out of luck. It’s a similar rule in Ireland of course, (we get an extra 48 minutes to collect our necessary poisons for the night) but it’s a little known part of the Fiendish stereotype that they have a fearsome rep for the “raising of the wrist.” Indeed Findus (crispy pancakes) are famed for their general tough guy attitudes.
Ladies and Gentlemen, please stand for The President of Finland! Play the song… I dunno. Maybe the Nokia ringtone?
There was a champion sniper back in the war known as the “White Death” who killed 505 Soviets in 100 days, who stayed off the radar by literally eating the snow to stop his breath being seen. I am now regretting my pancake joke. I even got to see a bit of the inland of the country (spoiler alert, a lot of trees and colder than a witches tit) but I was on the clock so I didn’t get a lot of exploring time. I did notice that their normal type of water is fizzy though, so that’s pretty ritzy.
Earlier in this same past week I was in Lille when a massive thunderstorm hit and it planted me underground in a tunnel for an hour and a half while I deeply contemplated breaking my already rather dented diet in an orgy of chunky KitKats and mini-tubs of Pringles.
We had been holed up in Lille station for a while before we were due to leave. Standing outside the magazine store, my eyes were innocently drawn to the single graphically-covered pornographic magazine (I mean well done to her but I don’t imagine her parents are putting it in the Christmas letter) as being out of place amongst the magazine covers of ugly men holdong large fish and buff people glistening like they’ve been “into the margarine.” As goes the phrase.
I wasn’t glaring at it like a weirdo, I just regarded the strangley French scene long enough for me to witness a typical continetal business type guy (so much heavily gelled blonde hair) march right up ot the sole bastion of smut on the rack and to flick through, nodding appreciatively.
Pictured: almost, everyone in their gross inside creepo minds. Especially you!
In other news Meg and I are both dieting. This has effected me in that I have become really emotional about the Ireland’s performance at Euro 2016. When Hoolahan scored I was watching on my phone and as a queue of miseable Londoners bought train tickets, I walked out in front of traffic screaming:
It has made me particularly excited about this coming weekend I fly out to New York city, for only the 4th time in my increasingly not young life. I shall be breaking my fast with a sandwich so hedonistic it makes Rick James dip his wick in holy water lest it get pecked off by ravens.
Meg on the other hand has just straight up lost her mind.
In real time, seconds ago:
“I want to get crunk with it. Crunk on it. Everybody crunk. If you break a biscuit into two it’s like you got two biscuits.”
I think when I go to New York, biscuit number two is in serious peril.
Hoolahoner of Leek