The Pied Piper of Profanity
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Keep the home fires burning
I'm back at the parentals, going through a load of old stuff to see what my mum can take to a car boot (answer: all of it*) and thought I'd stick a quick update on my original blog. You're not forgotten, old friend, and when I have internet access sorted you'll be restored to your past former glories.
*Anyone want to buy some old videos? 50p each. |
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Time is on my side
Actually, it so isn't. Apparently moving in with your girlfirend takes up an awful lot of time and effort (I have a frankly worrying pile of shoes, for example, isn't that supposed to be a girl thing?), and some things are gonna keep getting put off. Like tidying up your blog after a major platform move. Since blogging like a fiend for most of 2005, 20six is blocked at work, and I've simply got too much to do out of work to be sat in front of the PC all evening. I'm not, repeat not, giving up on my 20six blog - I've put in two years and I ain't getting out now. I'm not scared of a little bit of HTML, especially when there's wonderfully helpful people like Katja around. But I do need time to My alternate blog (http://www.platform27.co.uk/Booger) is accessable at work, so I'll use that for odd updates and to slate various shite Z-list celebs. And in a month or so when our internet connection is up and running, I'll get back here and start tarting this up.
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Just between you and me...
... I quite like the changes. I woke up today with a blog that looks significantly more sophisticated than it did yesterday, and I didn't even do anything to it. I'm plesantly surprised. |
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It's not olden, it's golden
They say that when you assume you make an 'ass' out of 'u' and 'me'. Besides proving that text speak has been around for decades, this phrase tends to be very true nine times out of ten. Take the weekend's birthday jaunt to Somerset, for example. By Sunday evening I'd assumed that Somerset and I were destined to never get on, and that I'd be quite happy if Devon and Dorset got together and had a big manly hug, happlily edging their surly neighbour into the Bristol Channel forever. I came to this conclusion following a catalogue of awkward meetings with various people. From the God-bothering campsite owner who took my cynicism of The Da Vinci Code as a sign that I wanted to hear his crackpot religious theories (example: Joseph of Arimathea owned a lead mine in Somerset); to the whingy hill walkers who cried bloody murder if so much as a mouse farted on the campsite after ten o'clock; to the sour-faced restauranteur, who looked upon our party of thirteen with barely concealed disdain... until she realised just how big our bill was. Cue a hasty volte face and a bout of arse-kissing so transparent, so pathetic, that it made Basil Fawlty look like Arnold Schwarzenegger in The Terminator. And this was all before we went canoeing on the Sunday afternoon. Expecting a lazy paddle down the river with a few ice-cold beers, we were greeted by two instructors who clearly saw us for what we were (a rag-tag bunch of hungover wasters) and proceeded to dunk us in the rather cold River Yeo for two hours, all in the name of fun, apparently. Yep, it's fair to say that by Sunday evening Somerset and I weren't getting on too well. When the canoeing party arrived back at the campsite (soaked through and in dire need of hot food and cold booze), only to recieve a text from the non-canoeing party with directions to a pub down the road, I was just about ready to walk home, if that was what it took. I was having fun, but it was totally the wrong kind. Oh, how wrong I was. One brisk twenty-minute walk later and I was with a group of my very best friends in possibly the best pub in Somerset. Besides looking the part - 17th century, thatched roof, cartwheels propped against a low stone wall - they also had an old-fashioned games room with skittles, pool and darts. They had big slabs of steak, fresh fish and homemade curry on the menu. The locals wore huge smiles and happily chatted away to us, while the staff were a hundred times friendlier than all the staff in all the Wetherspoons in London. Several dogs wandered in and out, playing with anyone who cared to toss a stick for them. When that night's quiz was cancelled, to our dissappointment, we were given the quiz books and told to go right ahead, just make sure anyone who wants to play, gets to play. It was half past midnight when they finally kicked us out. But before they did, they loaned us a couple of torches to see our way home safely. And that was why I strolled into work this morning with a big, happy smile on my face and tales of a fantastic weekend: my assumptions were 100% wrong. |
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Go on...
Do this. I'm serious, do it - it's a marvellous idea. Practically free music. And just think of how much you'll lighten up someone else's summer. |
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[next page]
| The Fuck Off Man |
| (Don't) smoke 'em if you got 'em |
| Celebrity bloggage |
| You got a killer scene there, man... |
| My online spiritual home |
| Look here, someone made a website all about stupid customers |
| He hates more stuff than I do |
| These people amuse me |
| Is it true? Is it false? Look here and find out |
| How to pass time at work |
| Funny guys, very funny guys |
| Way too much time on their hands, I want their job |
| News, amusing stories, and a fair bit of nudity |
| He's from Colchester, don't hold it against him |
| He's a bit straight edge, but he's a top bloke none the less |
| Midget Circus |
| Jilted Barfly |
