gitatronic shirtings a la whist der nonclementure

It’s been like Blade Runner down here for the past few days, permanent fucking rain but without flying vehicles, video posters of oriental girls taking drugs and Harrison Ford, actually… no, definitely without Harrison Ford.

Work is stultifying dull but also immensely pressured in a sort of casual disinterested way, like someone nonchalantly chatting to you about the state of the economy whilst gently rubbing a 6 inch bread knife over the top of your penis. Obviously this intensifies somewhat when the boss calls and demands an update on something I’ve been unable to update, I’m then forced to blabber virtually incoherent excuses that I punctuate with moronic optimism until he goes away sated by confusion. It’s fucking horrid, really.

Last night was clement but dull. I selected the way of abstinence, it’s been a week, and I gorged myself on the corned beef hash n’ veg delight which, I’ve concluded, is heavier than Stonehenge. I think I’ll take a short break from it for fear of having to be winched onto the loo by a Sea King Helicopter.

Before settling down to gawp at the box I found myself in full domestic trance making my own sandwiches for today’s lunch. The action took place under the spell of Front Row on Radio 4 and judging by the package I had to carry from the fridge to my rucksack this morning I may have over done it. It’s the size of a human head.

Oh, watched Saw 4 last night, it’s relentless crap but I was being held down to the sofa by my swollen guts and made it to the end. I was going to write a review of it on WWM but it would be a pointless exercise, I absorbed none of it and despite my sobriety can’t even be arsed to bother remembering what actually happened.

This is ace.