Born in a cave by horned Norse demons
You never know if your baby will get a smackable face, that’s a cruel God’s trick
It’s Godzillas baby daddy, Matthew “Ugh really?” Broderick
Apparently he killed someone in Enniskillen in 1987. He got off by saying he didn’t remember. If you were gonna be famous and you missed out on the 80s you’d probably be pissed. Now all you get to do is have people on Twitter call you a “ginger pleb.” Extrapolaing out from my meagre experience.
So first of all I am a lazy slack-alley layabout. I took Christmas off from the blog without any announcement and I left you cold and alone. Shivering probably. Crying certainly.
Well I’m back… baby…? Never been able to deliver a convincing “baby.” Verbally or as an amateur midwife. The hospital staff are not good sports. I SAID it was a joke. And that I’d wear gloves next time. The court date is in April.
So what did I miss while I was away? Well I aged considerably, 30 years in fact. And no I didn’t age 30 years from babe to broken bottomfeeder in one night you crazy kook. It took about 7 minutes, commencing seconds after I had posted an instagram of me blowing a raspberry at a magazine cover of Putin. Someone accidentally dropped uranium in my tea and my fingernails fell out. It was real Raiders of the Lost Ark melty-faced Nazi stuff. Highly dramatic.
I had been hanging onto the line that I was in my mid-twenties as much to convey a very cultured and hilarious sense of faux insecurity at becoming a broken down old crust of a human as to distract people from the single tear hovering on my lash. It’s not crying unless the bugger gets out of the eye!
To commemorate my thirtieth orbit of the plughole, we went to gorge ourselves on hilariously shaped pork-portions (we call them por-pors, we’re disgustingly adorable) in Berlin. A really super city with as much serious pondery things to see as good wandery areas. In what ended being something we had to tell lots of people, we went to all the Christmas markets including one that had astounding levels of dickheadedness levelled upon by a weapons-grade prick.
The market in question surrounds the old bombed out church and is in the middle of the main shopping district. It’s the capital of German Christmas, making that guy the capital of arseholes.
Now that we’ve angered/saddened up our blood we deserve a peek at this guy. The world is a tough place. But look how sleepy and hairy his little face is?
Berlin was relatively quiet as the weather was quite bitter and most Berliners have the good sense to keep inside unless tempted out by hot Gluwein. First made in the 1800s by a horse farmer with an excess of stock and a dreadful Monday evening with his wife’s friends to struggle through, gluwein is a hot sugary treat adopted by the Germans in order to keep a baselevel of drunkeness throughout the cruel winter months.
It also serves a useful secondary purpose as a quick way to dissolve any troublesome teeth you might have into withered saccharine mush-stumps. Doctors orders and all that.
On one particular Berlin metro ride, one largely mad woman started screeching and running up and down the carraige in a aggravated state. It’s always the same reaction I experience in this situation, empathy to someone in tought times followed by a sincere hope the person doesn’t vomit on me and then punch me in the dinger. She was yelling about something in German of which there was only one word I could gather Weiß (=white). Given this, it was pretty likely her mutterage was focused on people who weren’t… weiß.
Whatever she was saying, it was making everyone deeply uncomfortable as evidenced by everyone squirming in their seats like eels in butter. As the old saying goes.
Later that same day we were on the far side of the city and needed to head back to the hotel. We went down to the metro and saw a familiar face.
Here’s a picture I took of the old woman on my smartphone before she got off the carraige. You can see the crazy in her eyes right?
We had about ten seconds as low-level clairvoyants as we alone knew the immediate future before she began treating us all to another choice example of why German is the only choice of language for the discerning maniac.
Later that evening we were searching for a restaurant of Turkey (the country not the bird, unless the country is the… TO THE LIBRARY!) As we rounded another corner onto another street of slowly spinning composite meat-sticks we walked past a pair of Germans and over-heard one say to the other conversationally “Das ist full-retard!”
Great lads I’m sure.
Our big night out was the final night when we decided to unleash the beast on an area we had decided was the main night-time hotspot of Berlin. I had decided we should come at it from the North (the last eight letters are sponsored by Sean Bean’s voice) as this was the sordid underbelly of 70s Berlin. Bowie’s Berlin. Naked butter-covered dwarf in a cage Berlin.
The evening was early so we were on the eye out for a place to stop and have a beverage. I saw an Indian restaurant with a happy hour at 6 so we pottered in
Time. Along with thirst and the brutal cruelty of the world we live in make up the triumverate of things that dictate when to consume fluids.
“Hi, is it happy hour?”
Waiter – “Happy hour is 6 and it’s ten past five.<we turn around back towards the door>”
Manager – “Ahhh… okay for you we can make it happy hour.”
We sat and drank ridiculous cocktails while waiters shuffled unused crockery on our table and entreated us to look at the menu. Initially Meg was a bit self conscious as to be fair we were getting some serious looks from a table over my shoulder, but she relaxed when after a few minutes the old girls giving us the eyeball were delivered their own platter of umbrella-pronged goldfishbowls.
They just didn’t look as fab as I did
After 4 preposterously decorated and multicoloured drinks we decided to get some food so left the confused waiters to clean our table and gave them a blue-toothed smile (I had been drinking something called a swimming pool that was heavily soaked-through with chlorine and made my turds green.)
We walked for 15 minutes looking for something that tickled our fancy. After realising there were no reataurants or bars in the area, we found ourselves woozily standing in front of a familiar doorway.
“We’re back guys!” The waiter looked at us quizzically and apparently not recognising us or our aquamarine gumlines sat us down again to await our bowls of delicious spicy slop.
Messy Christmas everybody.
In other news Meg and I are hitting our pre-wedding diet hard and are currently hoovering our way through every sugary treat in the house so that we won’t be tempted a few weeks out.
So far so good.
Berliner of Leek
On the offchance the US is freaking you out then,
In terms of public life, his record could have been cleaner
It’s court-appointed boner-owner Anthony “well done dummy” Weiner
Ah lads. This shitshow is going all Brexit on us isn’t it?
An FYI about the turdcicle above, he’s under investigation for sending pictures of his… surname to underage girls while calling himself “Carlos Danger,” after having been disgraced as a congressman twice for sending pictures of his bulge to random women. His wife at the time worked for Hil-dog and now the world is heaving chunks over the side of the boat as the polls level and Duncan’s horses eat each other.
Incidentally, I was going to use a far more insulting image but I’m trying to use less copyrighted material in case anyone litigious ever reads this. That said I wouldn’t want you to miss out on the hot nonsense I got when searching for said insulting photos. Here are the top 5 tabloid headlines I encountered-
- Stick A Fork In Weiner
- Weiner: I’ll Stick It Out
- Weiner’s Rise And Fall
- Weiner’s Second Coming
- Beat It
So how does one distract oneself from the noise of toilets being flushed on our collective bonces? Well I went some places. And now will say some things about the places I went.
For those among you with less than cascading waterfalls of interest in my travels, well I’m sorry but it’s this or I start sexting Donald Trump with pictures of seal’s penises. Actually I might do that too.
Steady on guys, I meant the arf arf kind. But as you’re so insistent I’ll tweet him and see if he’s up for it. Nothing ventured like.
So I left you with me in the Islamic Republic of Iran. A note on the name, it’s a bit on the nose, but naming your country is half the attraction of any revolution. When I took over Den-Mark, no one noticed my subtle rebranding of their country. But they’ll certainly find out the bad news when a portrait of my fuzzy arse is on the 10 Krone coin.
Incidentally why would our ancestors have evolved such hairy arses? Where is the advantage that I’m not seeing? It’s like sitting on a wig! I digress.
After arriving into my hotel from the airport I hoarsely got my room number off the receptionist and hobbled up to my room passing a who’s who of international arseholery. All the sycophanting burblers of international governments have been into Iran since the dropping of sanctions, including my own MP Phil Hammond who since the post-Brexit purge has been wedged into the Chancellor position. Apparently named by his colleagues “Box Office Phil.” Entirely sarcastically.
How does your humble narrator deal with such ratcheting up of pressure by comparisons with world leaders? By falling into a deep but short sleep apparently.
Intercontinental jetlag pre-meeting sleep is not the best sleep.
The following day I awoke, a bit more kill-me-now than zap-biff-pow but nothing that endless rounds of figgy cake couldn’t fix. The Iranians are a decidedly good looking bunch but how they avoid swelling up like Violet Beuregarde is beyond me. The next two days were a relentless march of meetings upon meetings, with a constant vein of low quality but mercifully plentiful coffee throughout. Most of the coffee in Iran came in single all-purpose sachets of instant coffee, creamer (I hardly know her… I’m sorry) and sugar (I hardly know, oh no that one doesn’t work does it?)
The food on offer was a mix of Iranian (delicious meaty savoury slops), local neighbour foods (the Lebanese have cracked this whole food thing lads) and a single portion of 4/10 lasagna.
Some observations from my 48 hours in Iran-
- The people are easy-going, friendly as feck and from my limited sampling a damn sight more worldy than the chickenheads that populate most other countries (eat it without salt The Phillipines… and everyone else)
- Though for sure they have rich and poor like every country I got the feeling that people are pretty much on a similar level without the weird Wetherspoon-populating serfdom that exists in the UK.
- Traffic is the sticky icky icky (as Snoop Dogg would say) that binds Tehran together as a city. Everyone mentions it and everyone’s plans are subject to it like being teabagged by your violent carbon monoxide producing cellmate. You just gotta let it happen and wear comfortable underpants, because you could be sitting them in for a long time.
Always better to have the rule be comfortable underwear everywhere because otherwise stuff like this happens. Behold, the DingALingSling. Then forget it immediately.
Once I found the monstrosity above there was no way it wasn’t making it into the blog. My whole trip to Iran was an excuse to get this photo in. Not entirely.
I finished my trip to Iran piling back into another taxi off to the airport after shelling out a wad of freedombucks to the hotel as they still can’t take international bank cards. After plopping into my ample seat I drifted between sleep, reading and rewatching Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy (a solid piece of tobacco stained John Hurt misery). As we approached UK airspace I heard the familiar jangle of the drinks cart.
“Would you like a drink sir?”
“What do you have?”
“Full bar sir.”
“Umm.. Huh. I don’t really know how to respond to you at this stage.”
Heroically, I forwent. Also it was 10am.
My time at home was brief because I was right back on a plane to Athens the next morning where after getting a taxi to the hotel, my cab was rear ended in front of police as we pulled up to the hotel. It was a dramatic entrance for sure, a bit of peril does wonders for sleepy MFers who haven’t had a proper kip in a week.
Athens was a much briefer lap but one highlight was dancing on stage with the Greek band flinging colleagues hither and thither like some mad cathartic Fight Club. Finally on Friday night I got to sleep ten coma-like hours which still only returned me to the stage of staring at people inertly as they walked slowly up to me in an empty foyer and then exploding with motion like an epileptic firework when they spoke to me. It was a few more nights before I was once again, the 8/10 ballbag you know and lo… that you know.
In other news, we also went to North Wales this weekend past, my first time driving on a motorway. Everyone who has ever driven should be chased off a cliff with a pike. Including me. That is all.
Tehroner of Leek
If he was the one flying the planes, we’d have to get pre-flight beery,
It’s scarey leery aero-capitalist Michael “FitzTrump”O’Leary
Micky O’Lah hasn’t been in the news lately but he might have been on our tube. He sat with a vigour that Meg and I felt three seats down the line. A vigour that suggested, “I am an entitled arsehole who has planes.” Then he charged us €20 for what he called “a mid-trip rump-massage.” Boom!
Oh yeah, a Ryanair joke, because in my head it’s 2006.
So this past week I was high on the transport hog and was spread across several countries. It didn’t do a lot for my normally youthful visage (at one point I was able to pinch the bags under my eyes and waggle them around like tiny grey face-scrotes) but it did allow me to renew my love affair with the tiny pellets of honeyed pastry called baklava. That stuff would make you spend a night with Jabba himself.
So Iran, Iran so far away… better not be gay. Because along with an exposed female noggin and going twenty minutes without delicious cakes it’s bally-well illegal in Iran.
Which is where I am as I write this.
“Why am I here?” you’re probably asking, especially those with an existentially curious bent. As with many of the strange and wonderful places I’ve been to over the past two years, this is a work venture. But of course.
Where I work, in your mind (probably)
I got the all clear for this trip only on the previous Tuesday as my Visa still hung in the ether until the crucial final step of getting it daubed into my increasingly ragged passport got sorted by some tremendous fellows in a non-descript house in Kensington. I decided to just rock up to the consulate, emailing people as I went, trying to sort it out with the only thing I knew for sure being they decidedly DID NOT process Visas the day I was there.
Incidentally, why are they called Visas? Why doesn’t Mastercard get any love? That’s not a 2006 joke. Just a bad one.
I was instructed to chill my gills in the waiting room under the withering glower power of the Ayatollah whose portrait makes him look a bit like Sean Connery but after he accepted he was bald and really started owning it.
God he’s magnificent. Connery. And maybe the Ayatollah too.
After some Irish charm (and a lot more effectively a phone call from the European Commission) they sent me on my way, utterly credentialed but now admittedly wondering how my irreverant (and irrelevant) humor would go down with the real-world cast of Argo.
Not to be seen by anyone under 15. Or anyone. I’m glad he’s not allowed do movies now.
Just Affleck, John Goodman get’s a free pass on everything after The Big Lebowski. And not Casey Affleck. He’s a dote.
Last Sunday afternoon I trundled off to Heathrow airport with the ringing endorsements of “be careful,””don’t do anything fucking stupid” and “I’m not going over there to dig you out of the shit” from my various family members.
I also studiously avoided any intoxicating beverages in the airport as I didn’t want there to be any reason for the Iranian Revolutionary guard (great bunch of lads) to decide my blood required some inspection and would be more conveniently located for this purpose outside my body.
The flight was a bit grim being as it was Iran Air. The Iranians can sure do a hell of a foil pouch of unseasoned chicken and rice, but their passengers would be mucho obliged if they soaked up some of the sloshy piddle that made the toilets a one and done occurrance.
The rest of the flight was spent imagining the above scene and arranging my napkins into a rudimentary adult diaper.
I landed in Tehran Ayatollah Khomeni airport in the wee (so much wee) small hours of the morning, with a terrible desire to see someone holding my name mispelled on an A4 piece of white paper. There was no such someone.
After walking up and down a bit some harried looking chap started flaking it towards me and held out some crumpled text. I have always felt more of a Martin Cole if I’m honest and never have I been happier to be recognised as such. We wandered around the car park for twenty minutes, as he jabbed at the button in his hand listening for a beep that wasn’t forthcoming. Parking lines in Iran as well as traffic signals are really more suggestions than anything to be taken seriously. Which brings me to… Shambling to and fro around through the chaotic car salad, the thought occurred to me that maybe he’ll bring me somewhere that isn’t my hotel. Maybe I’ll be… Taken!?
Even Liam Neeson couldn’t get into a decent car chase if he was stuck in what I was soon to learn was the “famous” Tehran all-day gridlock.
Apparently there isn’t a great black market for the out of shape, pasty brillo-pad body type that is now my category should I ever have to classify myself in some grim human brochure.
If you haven’t seen me lately, don’t worry I’m probably still in the back of some lads car on Axis of Evil boulevard. The traffic was easily the worst thing about Tehran, in fact it was the only substantive negative I encountered in my time there.
Food was delicious, people are sound out and most everyone was perfectly happy to ignore any stupidity or insensitvity I might have expressed. Assuming I acted like myself at any point over the two days.
A choice bit of Iranian trivia: to piss off the British, they renamed the street that fronts on to the British Embassy as….
Bobby Sands Street.
Top level mischief I hope you agree. Some more from the Islamic Republic next week.
In other news, Meg has been taken down with a bad case of sore chompers and can’t sleep lying down without her gum swelling up and throbbing like rude emergency dinghy. Downside is she is only able to eat about a half a cup of porridge before quietly weeping.
Other downside is as she is having to sleep on the couch to keep upright, I have started sleeping in a blanket fort like nature definitely never intended.
There are no upsides.
Ayatoner of Leek
Being married to the man is apparently not “the shit”
It’s admittedly gar-geous but probs a ‘mare Brad “The Sweaty Arm” Pitt.
So I know I’ve been slacking on the blog a bit lately, but I’ve actually been really busy mainly with work.
The memoir will be called “Fur-tive Glances” if I ever move into a less controversial industry. Actually I might save that for my soul album. I’ll be holding a sax with a grapefruit on the end of it. No reason.
This weekend just past, Meg and I went on a mini-holiday to Windsor. The town where the Queen keeps all her ceremonial knickers and residents live in fear of being savaged by ferocious over-sized corgis.
We had been talking about going there for so long, my dear Mater got sick of hearing us yak about it so she got Meg a Christmas present of a night in a Windsor hotel. And guess who tagged along, ruining the luxury getaway vibe with trivia about the British Navy’s embarassing (but oh so invigorating) hazing rituals and constant references to the Queen Mother’s gusset?
This is the kind of classic crotch gag you can enjoy by following my Instagram feed. There’s also the odd photo of stuff I eat. Mainly pencaps and Tictacs. I understand trendy things.
So a bunch of little incidents to report from this.
On the way into Windsor, I looked up something on my phone. On a bit of a whim I had liked Cliff Richard’s Facebook page (also liked Daniel O’Donnell’s in the same session but Daniel has decided that his fanbase are a bit more analog than digital) but hadn’t really delved into his depths. Now the first photo I saw set me laughing, but as I kept swiping through it unveiled a whole series of bizzare mini-dramas that left me panting, weeping and indeed dribbling as Meg apologised to the others on the train for ruining the library in a vacuum ambience of the quiet-car. A big deal for the limeys.
Firstly Cliff has apparently bought shares in a vineyard in Portugal and is lacadaisically flogging his very orange brew to elderly women via his photo feed. In one amazingly restrictive promotional event, he was turning up for a tight two hours, where if you bought three bottles of his grog (€20, a total shteal) he’d write his name on a piece of card. Also a lot of the people who were commenting on Cliff’s inane updates had profile pictures commemorating the man himself and urging him NEVER to retire. And there’s a hell of a lot of saucy promotional images of Clifford himself for his albums (Just… Terrific Rock and Roll is on pre-order now) and his calendars.
Mister February 2015 here. His page is full of horrifying dream-invaders like this image. No way to know he’s wearing underpants here guys. No. Way. To. Know.
Just an idea for anyone looking for Christmas ideas for me, those calendars are in shops NOW.
As Meg and I walked down the main street of Windsor, we could see what in the distance and poor light looked like a group of men spread out across the otherwise deserted high street. Owing perhaps to our days in Manchester where stuff like this can go sideways fast and our own upbringings proximal to Limerick and Detroit we have a sensitivity to diceyness. Probably a good thing.
As it turned out, the large group of men was two small separate groups. One was a group of rotund midgets drunk off their arses and crammed to their tiny gills with Windsor fudge (probably a metaphor) and the other was waiters clearing the tables at an establishment called Madame Posh. Not the first or last time since moving down to the Thames Valley that we were the scum to be viewed suspiciously.
There was this flabby 7 year old lad in the station sucking on a Bounty bar (coconut is a fruit) and eyeballing all the other candybars in the vending machine in what could only have been a threat.
Our hotel in Windsor was lovely, but there was obviously something going on at breakfast as the staff were disorganised like 4 year olds at a birthday party. At one point a lady in denims stormed up to our table and dropped a bunch of brown bread toast on our table and quickly before she ran off I blurted “This isn’t ours <no response> um I don’t want this toast.” The penny dropped and she realied it wasn’t ours and her eyes darted around the room.
“Good morning. <no response from the guests>… GOOD MORNING!!!”
Some people actually awkwardly chorused “good… morning?” and one guy got his toast. A tale as old as time.
There was a lady on the train wearing shorts in 15 degrees to show off her varicose veins the size of tiny knuckles poking out of her calf and brown curled toenails like she had been trying to use her feet to find a penny in a pile of her own fecality.
What I did trying to avoid looking at those uncharitably uncovered hooves
Other tidbits from the weekend, I stole 11 soaps from the housecleaner’s cart, the hotel totally nailed the angle of the toilet mirror (100% view of the TV while sitting on the toilet) and Meg and I got smashed on Moroccan wine.
Also apparently there is such a thing as Moroccan wine.
We watched a TV show where obese people were literally publically weighed in front of their peers which included such gems as “I had a tough childhood, my sister was hit by a truck” and “your husband lost twice as much weight as you did and HE’S not even following my program!”
It was a rich full weekend.
In other news Meg called me excitedly with news from her work-at-home day. There had been one of those door to door meat salesman that we’ve all heard of arrive onto our road like a bacony Willie Lomond and Meg obliged him by signed us up to an £80 a month meat club.
When I heard that some travelling flesh-peddler had been taking the fancy of the local women with his fantastic line of thick juicy sausage, I was about fit to round up the village men and hang him from a tree like Mussolini. Then bang on time we got a box of admittedly high quality meat (the % of which orginating from the local morgue being undeclared) which has meant the whole thing has turned into a draw, but we decided to cancel anyway as we can’t have the neighbours knowing we have meat notions.
Still think I’d rather this cuckhold squadron didn’t know our address. I won’t be able to get to work in the morning with shady spivs plying me with pockets full of ground beef and their drawers full of tripe.
“Hallow me owld Choina salt, whadoowehav heeyah then, a lovely bit of kidnay foh da misses.”
Gotta go, I hear someone’s at the door.
Morroconer of Leek
If he said he was altering his mood, he wouldn’t be a liar,
It’s cocaine-soused omegaman, Richard “two-becomes-one-nostril” Pryor
I think we can all agree he would love some gameless punk cracker-ass making fun of him with the lyrics to a Spice Girls song. It’s clearly what he would have wanted. Also, where’s his top? Put on a t-shirt hotshot, the vicar’s coming for tea!
So I had a couple of days to recover from New York, passing a couple of cleveland steamers on the way. Actually I don’t rightly know what those are but if it doesn’t mean passing a turd the size of that boat from Fitzcarraldo I’m totally barking up the wrong tree. Pound upon heaped pound of wadded meat’ll get ya there.
I had heard that Eleanor Hammers Boner, but I’d never believed it until now. Bwaha! I’m sure she was lovely. Oh no wait, the producers in my earpiece tell me she spied for Bismarck in the Franco-Prussian war. The devious Hun.
A few bits I forgot to mention from New York, first among them I got to see me some showtime boys. Now I call a lot of stuff ____boys, because you got to make yourself laugh. I for example refer to myself as a fancyboy in every second blog or thereabouts. I enjoy changing every reference I see in day to day life from a gentleman to a gentleboy. I’m even tumultuously excited to see that fire ants are getting referred to as “spicyboys.”
I think it’s something making some larger point about intellectual property online but it’s difficult to learn how as there are only two words in that article that I give a fig about.
So when I was told I might see the showtime boys, I really didn’t care what was about to happen, I was already satiated.
I mean it looks cool and all, but he’s gonna want to wash his hands before he eats his jam sandwiches.
They did a serious routine for 1m30s in between stations and in an impressive gesture of New York couldn’t give a sweet candied-f, one onlooker was able to simultaneously totally ignore an upside-down twirling dancer while ducking his head back to repeatedly dodge a high-speed shoe as it swiped past his face. The whole package was impressive indeed.
Another seen-in-New-York moment occurred as I stomped the street with my man-mate Ian, himself an actor trying to headbutt his way through the queue of earnestly-hopeful turkeys to get the next hot juicy role. A hot juicy turkey roll as it were.
As we walked along a random street we saw 3 (kinda) people in hippo masks, dressed in business drone-wear destroying a fake office to the loud booming audio of jungle sounds. This was all visible through a large perspex window facing onto the street. It was very artsy. But crap. Obvs.
As we stared in, he started to give a commentary on this miserable nonsense we beheld.
“Yeah, you’re acting aren’t ya?! Ya see I’m tapping the glass so that she has something to react to, they eat this shit up.”
I worry the city is taking my friend the actor and making him into my friend the rough and tough New Yorker.
Actually, he’ll probably be fine.
In the past week I took the train over and back from Brussels and on my way home I guess I must have fallen asleep because I woke up. After looking around and making sure I wasn’t showing any more skin than was strictly legal I felt a sense of relief. I had been a bit groggy since returning from the US and it was relief that etched itself across my increasingly wrinkly brow. Then I looked down and noticed a slight discolouration flecked across my white shirt. I knew it well.
Ah food grease, my old compadre. Speckler of tops. Augmenter of meals. Once again you christen me with permanent testament to my messy eatership.My forefathers, saw your pioneer missionaries, departing a boar leg under an African sky to rest on an animal loin cloth shielding the seeds of us all.
Turned out it was actually drool that had shot out in what is called a “gleek.” It’s what happens when you dribble with your salivary glands uncovered, it shoots out like jets of cobra venom. It’d be cool if you could do it on demand to intimidate wildlife and parking attendants, but it just something I do when asleep on public transport.
Actually that’s pretty good.
The Gleek has 0% with being a fan of that thing about the paedo and heroin addict who try to destroy music through the power of having no creativity.
This past weekend we went up to Manchester and were genuinely surprised by the amount of construction going on there. It’s now… a boomtown I guess? This is a little hard to take given Meg and my experiences of only two years past. Meg got propositioned creepily on the street a lot. A guy once spat on the back of her head and called her a “fucking bitch.” She also had to give a reasonably well-to-do guy £3 to get home as he had just been beaten half to death and was bleeding out of all the holes in his head. Some of which were specially created for the purpose.
In fact as we now talk this whole thing out, I’m starting to think that Manchester is a pretty safe city, but Meg has a Fight Club like alter ego and her reign of terror is almost at an end. Naw to be fair, I did find a woman in a hedge who didn’t know how she’d gotten there or who she was at 2pm and frequently bumped into bargain-basement hookers on the way home as I walked to work in the morning. Actually now I’m pretty suspicious about myself. Eh, whaddya say let’s just forget the whole thing.
Let’s FORGET the whole THING. <nods>
In other news, despite our swerves from the diet over the weekend, we are both still losing weight. Checking my Body Mass Index, (BMI, which can also mean bowel mess inside) I read that for my height I am technically overweight. Fair enough, except that after telling Meg this she is now referring to me as “Clinically Obese.”
Did you forget it yet?
The Toner of Gleek.