The Toner of Gleek

If he said he was altering his mood, he wouldn’t be a liar,

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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.

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There. Eventually.

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.”

http://www.dailydot.com/unclick/spicy-boys-originator-petition-tumblr/

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.

A figgyboyt.

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.

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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.

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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.

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 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?

Dern.

The Toner of Gleek.

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Babkoner of Leek

About her freshwater kin, I’ll cast no aspersions,

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Or she’d poison my IrnBru, it’s Nicola “our only hope” Sturgeon!

I decided to use my opening photo reference for good rather than… well not evil but mocking nonsense as is my norm. I kinda need to keep leaders of other countries sweet right now. You already know why.

So my monthly unblogged weekend has passed and thusly my blog gland drippeth (forsooth!) with what I can only assume is hilarious anecdotes, quippery and the very height of befuddlery that I have cobbled together to call my human life.

Life bit the first! Last Saturday I woke with a start to see that my car to the airport was waiting already outside my door. Due to an alarm-setting malfunction (lack of doing the thing) I slept through to the minute I was meant to leave for the airport to head to New York, but being the canny traveler I am I leave loads of time for such foolishness and made it to the airport after taking the retrospectively merciful move to take a quick shower. The overnight humidity these past weeks has my morning plums as ripe as a doonbuggy on a Lousiana corncob. Apologies, I’ve been talking to Americans for a few days. That’s how they all talk.

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“I been bucking like a hoohaa on the 4th of July eatin’ mah backtack ‘n’ scrapple and doin’ the Charleston on a cottonpick.” – 21st President of the United States Chester A. Arthur (pictured)

After arriving at the airport and getting my newly refreshed plums pawed at by mayor of the gropetown, I was into the building and after demolishing some stale pastries I got onto my plane only to realise that the fools had bumped me like a late dinner reservation to the waft zone by the toilets. But in this case, the Bidness Class toilet! Victoire! Yes as a governmentally-acknowledged fancy boy, they planted me into a full reclining seat with all the modcons including champlane, air d’oeurves before my meal (just one more, keep it going Marky-boy, that’s my new nickname for myself BUT NO TIME FOR THAT NOW) and a really, nice… jet towel? For my neck. Oh no. I’m sorry.

My first two days in NYC, were both hot and chafy but heightened by the presence of one Ian Prince, a former Japan inmate (no really it was great(no really it was a prison of the body AND the mind (beanpaste as a dessert made to look like chocolate!? (these are just some words to have a quadruple bracket closing off my bloggy bucketlist)))).

We sauntered around like cocks of the walk, perusing the finery and giving our heart valves over to a strict and strenuous regimen of alcohol, pork and salted salt. The Americans really know how to destroy an organ legally and with utmost, albeit short-lived enjoyment. In this vein (and still in my veins) was a fresh and sugar soaked chocolate babka.

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If that specifically New York confectionary sounds familiar. Congratulations/commiserations, we are kin.

It glistened in the afternoon sun, steamed with just-baked sweetness and bounced off the disgusting New York Union Square pavement as we dropped half of it and tasted even better when we picked it back up and continued eating. It was insane. Calories easily in the thousands. Shame in the millions. I want one! (tears off t-shirt Hulk-style to reveal a flabby wrinkled torso, babka flakes suspended in my man-breast-fluff).

I regret nothing.

We continued the food tour to include the birth of New York hipsterdom in Brooklyn. As they say in New York, you can’t spell Brooklyn without… all the letters. And some education. A pen. Or a mouth. It’s a nice spot. Brooklyn!

Inspired by this brush with trendiness I also engaged in several highly trendy behaviours.  One such move (I call things I do “moves” now, it’s trendier that way) I went to watch Ferris Bueller in a park in Manhattan, swigging Cava from a communal bottle and trendily mixing up Mia Sara with Mia Farrow. Easily done, but one of these didn’t stumble upon the creepy fact that her boyfiend (no typo, typno) Woody Allen was shtupping her young  (and I mean YOUNG!) adopted daughter.

Director Allen and his wife Previn pose at premiere of "To Rome with Love" in Los Angeles

How could he… resist? And of course his appeal is. Obvious. <leaves room>

Another trendy move (it’s already passé to call it that) was to go to a house party in Harlem. As we approached the house there was a lot of shouting and policey lights in the area we were heading to but we veered hard right before anybody did any crimes to this simple country lad. Instead we had a boozey cheese sandwich party, where we discussed theatre, publishing and the complexities of the nomad life. I’m also pretty sure I straight up weed on her floor. New York rules are that New York Rules! And pee goes eeeverywhere.

In other news… Brexit. I need to stop talking about it or I’m going to get both sad and angry for the umpteenth time since the turd-gobblers that constitute 52% of the voting UK public pulled back their dribble-soaked “Britain First” bedspreads and smeared their democratic contribution to the world across the walls of their padded voting booths. And I will stop talking about it after this one spindly point. 52% of people did a dumb thing, but this thing has been coming for a while. This place is way more f’d than people thought, me included (though perhaps I should have known better and assumed worse) and if there is any positive to come from this squirt-fight liquid dumbness it is as a warning to others. US, Ireland, anybody anywhere that cares about where they live (an admittedly long list) look at what’s happened and rid yourself of complacency. Real bad stuff can happen and on recent evidence, it bloody well will.

I can hear Meg sleeptalking upstairs. “I’m not an expert!!” Might be time to give her a break on discussing this blighted land.

Creme brul-hey-that guy’s on an airplane? Naw, you should go, this ain’t getting better.

Babkoner of Leek