(I wrote this while drunk and it’s rubbish, but reading it again made me laugh so:)
1980s throwback
Keep your ipods at bay
Walkman’ll play that
Keep your chips at bay.
Jump up and down in your polyester
Fuck this velour shit
Don’t point me towards your email
I want to facsimile
Ah you only accept telex
Silly me.
Nah, I don’t want to see your disco tat
Keep your Magnum PI to yourself
Just drop me some Airwolf
StreetHawk and the A-team
Otherwise I’m deleting your phone number
From my filofax
I recently went back to my particular corner of England for a much needed break from all things French. Catching up with friends and family was the main aim, and it wasn’t until I arrived that I realised that to do this unhindered by the proles that be I would have to drill twenty JJB England flags into my back and become fiercely patriotic. Enjoyed the football fever for my brief visit anyway.
Things started off pretty well. We were in an old local of ours, enjoying the sun and a few London priced pints in the beer garden, just chatting shit and perhaps talking too loudly for the innocents in our presence. Especially when donkey punching came up and had to be explained, with gestures, to one of our party. Things were good and we all had our lager heads on so we stayed on for a few more.
A few hours later we realised it was time to eat, lest we Stellarise ourselves into an unrecognisable, malfunctioning state of total fuckery. Not fancying the £20 steaks on the menu, we went back to my old place and ordered a take away. Inevitably, before that, the weed was produced. An ounce of normal grass and half an ounce of vicious skunk weed needed to be weighed up and distributed amongst our number. Got that sorted first, after a discreet run for cling film that reminded me of the hundreds of similar runs for film, foil and food made in times past, then the reefers were rolled. Off to the front patio to smoke them up. Faces crinkle and brains begin to flap in the wind. Especially those now unaccustomed to the chronic life…..
Jeers and baiting ensue as we lurch back upstairs, ready to take our places in the ceremonial Tekken battle and rekindle ancient rivalries.
After a few rounds we notice two or three police cars directly outside the house, lights flashing. Fuck. Bollocks. Cunt. What is it ? Get up to have a look and, with temporary relief, realise it’s absolutely nothing to do with a few mates catching up and getting lean, and entirely about the two mashed up cars outside. The relief ends when I see it’s my mate’s car that’s been hit. A large saloon car facing the opposite direction than it was parked, sporting some serious war wounds. We’re caned and the timing couldn’t be worse, but we’ve got to go out and deal with this one. Apparently the driver at fault was completely pissed, or severly retarded. He was also losing blood from a nasty gash in his forehead and muttering in a thick mockney accent, voice fluctuating from high to low like a punchy barrow boy, “look at my fuckin car, I can’t believ it. oh mate”. He had apparently tried to overtake two cars at once, lost control, crossed a lane of oncoming traffic and smacked into the rear of my mate’s car. Anyone in the car would have been pretty shaken to say the least. An unlucky pedestrian would have been killed. I think the guy must have known he was in trouble as his first reaction was to call his solicitor.
We had a lot to deal with, but the pizzas had arrived, and those cunts upstairs were getting the munchies.
The police were there until 1 in the morning. After much goading I was convinced that it was still alright to go and smoke three large biftas on the porch, just a few metres from the good officers, who seemed to be playing top trumps and taking holiday photos. They were right. My house paranoia needed taming. We continued to drink, to ourselves and the honourable death of an M reg Mondeo. The land of total fuckery would have us after all.
Madrid is not the hottest place on earth, but when in a hostal room the width of a decent sized ashtray, with the walls seemingly padded with asbestos, it certainly seems it. But I have now escaped the accursed window-less box and have moved up a couple of notches on the socioeconomic scale, to a student flat. The only thing imprisoning me now is my own lingusitic talents, or current lack of them. Work hard and you will prosper. I will.
Mourn with me brothers and sisters of Bolo – my bike died.
I don’t really own a lot of stuff, and there’s still fewer things that I own that I’m really attached to. But I really loved that bike.
After eight years and 15,000 miles the aluminium tubes of my Klein Pulse Comp have finally parted company and it’s gone to the big velodrome in the sky.
I recently went back to my particular corner of England for a much needed break from all things French. Catching up with friends and family was the main aim, and it wasn’t until I arrived that I realised that to do this unhindered by the proles that be I would have to drill twenty JJB England flags into my back and become fiercely patriotic. Enjoyed the football fever for my brief visit anyway.
When you get a horoscope like this, you’ve got to be hopeful for a good day.