There are two things on my mind:
1) I went out last night to one of those bars full of pretty faced young hostess types with nice dresses, plump girls exposing cleavage and shirt boys running around, cracking jokes about bonus payments an share options. The music was loud enough to avoid conversation, but not good enough to gyrate the crowd sufficiently, eyeing each other up like accumulators, the bartenders mixing drinks with “hilarious” Tom Cruise Cocktail moves. It was very dull and I left, happy to have escaped without a kicking from a wide-boy, or without draining my entire wallet from £3.50 lagers.
2) Bolo is currently being inundated with spam. The evil robots of the online gambling / impotence / fake degree industries are attempting to leave approximately 1,500 comments a day on the assorted posts that make up the flimsy tome of knowledge that is bolo. What the fuck man? This is not a commercial site. I do not receive payment for any advertising on this site and any opinions given as to the quality of any company or individual are purely for my own non-paid amusement. There is absolutely no way. No way, you hear me you evil fuckers, that I will be tolerating your banal link blighted adverts for your pox ridden, sweat greed maligned products.
On the upside, so far my lovely spam filter has blocked every single one from even a second of public consumption. It informs me of their arrival and I press ‘delete’. I pray for its ongoing successful vigilance against these pigdogs. May they burn in a bizarre chemical spraying accident.
(Oh yes, and the trip write ups are still to come…)
YES! Fuck that shit! I feel like I am stuck in a world of gerbil-brained automatons when I enter bars of that ‘quality’. If I was a little less stable and had access to a large arms dump, I would definitely be a man bathing in the blood and fine-weave cloths of the shirt crowd, whilst the shiny glass surfaces reflected the expensively spotlit leather upholstery, tarnished by remnants of a shallow tart’s intestines.