rasslez
I managed to get some of the weekend instalment written before I went out on the razzle with Harry yesterday but I didn’t post the bastard thing to myself at work, subsequently the other of half of the weekend will be right here tomorrow.
I’d like to point out that I didn’t mean to go out and wind up drinking. I was already feeling delicate from Saturday, it was all worth it though.
At midday yesterday I woke up and ate half of the burger I’d made on Friday, I was probably chewing with my mouth open with my eyes virtually closed cradling my head in the other hand. After some writing and the washing of Saturday’s clothes (what was all mucky) I watched the Grand Prix, which was used as an aid to recovery before crawling out the flat and hitting the sunshine.
It took me a few minutes to get over how warm it was, being the clever fellow I am I’m rather adept at keeping my place cool using blind and open window combos that block direct light and ensure subsequent convection sucks the heat away from my fucking balls, so walking out into the heat of the afternoon was a little surprising.
At 4-ish, following a sodden bus and tube ride, I met up with Harry and we managed to find a spot on the roof terrace of a pub–this was probably our undoing. It was such a lovely spot with a splendid view over Clapham Common that to leave it would’ve been akin to plopping on the Jesus child.
Harry and I began to converse about everything and as the beer flowed the minutiae of life was probed and dissected with enthusiasm reserved only for those in our quite magnificent predicament. Presently our table became occupied with strangers and, subsequently, conversations were struck up providing an excuse to continue for longer than intended. I reasoned that because it was a Sunday, and that I usually don’t drink on the day of the cunting Sabbath, then it was my duty to imbibe. Before I left for home I wound up drinking a vodka expresso or something, I have to confess to feeling a bit muddled.
I do recall that when I arrived back I ate a crumpet. This I know to be true.
May 12, 2008 at 11:09 am
Bit bloody late today, eh? You fat, drunken ignoramous. Anyway, is Swineshead dead? I wanted to discuss something with him.
May 12, 2008 at 11:30 am
Oh, and by the way. I have it on good authority that you spent the weekend pushing stuff up your arse. You’re unhealthy. A dreg. The worst sort of person. A bad egg.
May 12, 2008 at 12:19 pm
Sorry, unlike you, the unemployed, I had work to do…
You’re quite right, I did spend some of the weekend pushing stuff up my arse, ironically, bad eggs
May 12, 2008 at 12:28 pm
I’m not unemployed, and you know I’m not. I just give off the impression of being unemployed, which is a different thing altogether. So there.
And I’m glad you’ve confirmed the mounting rumours that you’ve spent the weekend pushing things up your own arse. You depraved deviant.
May 12, 2008 at 12:45 pm
Well you should, by rights, be unemployed as you’re awful…
Nout wrong with pushing things up ones arse is there?
May 12, 2008 at 12:48 pm
Why should I be unemployed? Eh?
And there is something wrong with spending your life pushing things up your own arse. You’ll roast – ROAST – in Hell for your mucky ways.
MUCKY WAYS.
May 12, 2008 at 1:01 pm
You should be unemployed becuase you’re awful, have you forgotten how to read? Have you?
I bet you have.
Hooligan.
May 12, 2008 at 1:05 pm
Foppish braggard.
I’m not awful, you are. I don’t know what you look like, but I’ll wager you’re hideously overweight, bald, covered in all veins, and you stink of drink. That’s why you’re awful … and you make matters worse by pshing awful things up your awful fat arse.
You anus.
May 12, 2008 at 1:06 pm
That should have been ‘pushing’, not ‘pshing’.
May 12, 2008 at 1:13 pm
Mmm, seeing as you edited a picture of my fizzog a few months ago pardon moi if I conclude that you’re suffering from the side effects of being a thicko -as you rightly say, it’s ‘pushing’ not ‘pshing’
(snigger)
May 12, 2008 at 1:19 pm
No, I edited a picture of you that was at least fifteen years old. Like a lot of vain people, you can’t bear the idea that you’re not young any more, so you hand around ancient photos of yourself and pretend you still look like that now. I don’t know what you look like – I know what you looked like. There’s a difference, you stupid bastard.
May 12, 2008 at 1:29 pm
It was a few years old, about 7 I think… I look younger than that AND my cock has continued grow, I fancy a growth spurt right now actually.
Christ, it stinks of poo in here (seriously, have you been eating it? It stinks)
May 12, 2008 at 1:39 pm
Actually, that’s my breath. I went to a Social Club last night and watched a singer performing Buddy Holly songs to a bunch of old folks. I played bingo, and drank some bad beer. I’ve cleaned my teeth, but the stench of olde worlde working man booze remains.
Anyway, that still doesn’t negate the fact that you’re old and trying to cover the fact up. It’s downhill for you – won’t be long now before you’re the one hockling up turds in a nursing home. I WILL LAUGH AT THIS.
May 12, 2008 at 2:02 pm
I can see you playing Bingo, the expression of muted delight as you hobble back home to your fetid bedsit with a £3.99 carriage clock grasped in your liver spotted paw.
Of course you’ll have had an ‘accident’ when you called ‘Bingo’ you disgusting lump of gristle.
May 12, 2008 at 2:07 pm
Fuck you, you drunken buffoon. Unlike you, I can afford to live in a palace – and I do, in a palace, that’s where I live. And anyway, the prize for a full house was £100 – a sum not to be laughed at, especially not by debt-riddled bankrupts such as yourself. I’ll laugh – LAUGH – when you’re in the gutter. Then I’ll break your legs. That’s YOUR legs. Yours.
And I didn’t call ‘Bingo!’, nor did I shit myself. Some old woman won the £100, and there was shit everywhere.
May 12, 2008 at 2:21 pm
You can afford to live in a palace can you?
When are you coming to London Dickhead Whittington?
*nasty snigger*
You won’t be able to afford the tarp for that skip outside Stratford dump
May 12, 2008 at 2:37 pm
How do you know what I can afford? Eh? Do you know how much I earn? Erm, no. Do you know how much my other half earns? Oh! No you don’t! You’re making assumptions based, as usual, on fuck-all.
As it ‘appens, we’re looking at some very nice places down there, thanks very much. Far swankier and in a better location than your hovel. Mind you, unlike you, we can afford it because we don’t waste all our money on overpriced food and vast quantites of booze. I shall laugh at you when I’m down there – laugh as I set fire to another fifty pound note.
May 12, 2008 at 3:01 pm
…now whose making assumptions for I DO know HOW much you earn, I know, I FUCKING KNOW, YOU AND YOUR MISSUS, EAT THAT! AHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHA
May 12, 2008 at 3:01 pm
(how much do u ern?)
May 12, 2008 at 3:13 pm
Loads. And my missus earns loads too. Do they do special gold houses down there? I want to live in a gold house when I’m in London – because I can.
May 12, 2008 at 3:25 pm
By the way, you are aware that on account of no one being able to understand your dreadful dialect you’ll die of starvation a week after arriving at Euston, in Euston.
You are aware of this I hope…
Are you? I hope you are aware, erm, me black puddin’
May 12, 2008 at 3:46 pm
My dreadful dialect? And what would that be? You’ve heard me, have you? Oh, no you haven’t! Again, you’ve just assumed something. Well done.
As for starving down there? Well I didn’t do the last time I lived in the South, so I reckon I’ll be alright. I know you Londoners are a bit thick, so I’ll just speak clearly and slowly … as if I’m conversing with a brain-damaged child.
Oh, and I’ll be arriving at St. Pancras, by the way. Can you pick me up?
May 12, 2008 at 3:48 pm
Sure, what time?
May 12, 2008 at 3:51 pm
4:32. We can go back to yours.
May 12, 2008 at 4:01 pm
Please
Hang on, just writing all this down…
What day?
May 12, 2008 at 4:17 pm
Friday … don’t tell the wife.
May 12, 2008 at 4:30 pm
EXCELLENT! Five minutes’ walk away. I’ll be the one in the black overcoat taking pictures and sweating from the heat of wearing impractical clothing in summer.
May 12, 2008 at 4:33 pm
There’s always something to spoil a beautiful moment.
May 12, 2008 at 4:35 pm
What, like Piqued pushing something up his arse?
May 12, 2008 at 4:36 pm
Incidentally, this has to be the most comments on a single post here ever.
May 12, 2008 at 4:39 pm
You’ve clearly not been paying attention, Wagonwheel. The Nigella udders debate went on for ever, if memory serves.
May 12, 2008 at 4:41 pm
Really? Link me.
May 13, 2008 at 9:48 am
John, it’s not, I’ve had more yeah. Many more