Two things of note happened this week, firstly I saw my friend quoted in a newspaper and text her out of excitement. The fact that she had changed her number without telling me didn't come as a massive surprise, after all I do drink far too much, and, when drunk I find that being drunk is THE best time to communicate via the medium of SMS. I also seem to have developed an issue that I can only describe as being fucking stupid, where I type out a message but when I go to send it, I inadvertently send it to the contact above or below the one I had intended. Honestly, it has got so bad that I've had to reorder contacts under daft naming conventions just so they aren't near potentially sensitive ones. Once I was having jovial drunken banter with a friend and instead of sending it to his mobile I sent it to his home number, immediately above it. The only problem was he didn't live at home anymore and his poor mother was awoken at around 2am by her home phone ringing. Realising that people only call at that time in emergency scenarios she raced to answer it and was then subsequently subjected to a sexually explicit verbal tirade by a computerised voice. I checked the papers the next day, worried in case Professor Stephen Hawking had been apprehended by the law for making nuisance calls. He hadn't, he'd just been beaten by his wife again.
So when I got a reply informing me I had the wrong number I apologised and vowed never to make the same mistake again. I then got another reply saying he'd had several calls from people he didn't know and that I should tell them it's not the right number. This level of stupidity intrigued me, the rest of the exchange went like this...
Me: You'd like me, a faceless entity that you don't know, to contact other people that you don't know and tell them not to call you, people that neither of us know, because it's a wrong number?
Him: I just thought you might have known them
Me: So of all the people in the world that you don't know, you thought I would be on conversing terms with the ones who called you?
Him: You must know some of them, just tell them it's the wrong number.
Me: Ok, which ones?!
Him: I don't know, they're your mates!
Obviously this isn't verbatim, but not because I'm paraphrasing, because he was a fucking retard and spoke in text language.
Secondly, I was leaving the 'greenroom' of a gig at the weekend, I put that in inverted comas because it was actually a storeroom. I also realise that I spelt 'comma' wrong, I was going to change it but then thought it was amusing. An inverted 'coma' - that's just being awake! I'm afraid your husband's been in a terrible accident, he's in an inverted coma - he's just lying on his bed listening to his favourite song over and over, I dunno what that's helping but he seems to be enjoying himself. Anyway, on the way out of the greenroom I attempted to bid the show manager farewell with a customary peck on the cheek. I don't think I've ever been as startled as I was with what happened next, and that includes the time at uni when I came home early and found my flatmate with his penis in the hoover. Getting sexual gratification from any hoover is weird, but when it's Henry the Hoover it's also gay. She reacted in a blind panic and jumped backwards into a corner! With humour being my only defense mechanism all I could do was mutter, 'Calm down love, it's alright! I was only saying goodbye. You've reacted like I just pushed you into a corner and tried to molest you!' - Now, lessons were learnt that night and I'd like to share them in an attempt to avoid anyone else from suffering a similar fate. If you ever find yourself in a similar situation, dimly lit room, attractive young girl... whose first language isn't English...don't use words like 'molest', it's only going to exacerbate the affair.
So while the week kicked-off with a text conversation you're only ever going to have once in your life, it also concluded with one, that I hope to only ever have once. In reply to 'How was the gig?' from the promoter, I found myself putting, 'Really nice thanks, cool crowd, acts all did really well and I didn't try to fuck your stage manager.'
I didn't put an 'x' at the end of it, it didn't seem appropriate.
Wednesday 14 July 2010
Bob Dylan
On Saturday 3rd July I went to see the legendary Bob Dylan at Hop Farm Festival. I was so excited I lost all concept of what a reasonable amount of drink is and inadvertently purchased a liter of vodka with the distinct sensible recollection of, 'sure whatever I don't drink I can always bring back home.' Not wanting to give the impression of being a scum-bag by sipping Smirnoff en route, I also acquired six cans of cider. A rather smooth move, I can only imagine that I must've resembled a suave, flame-haired Adonis as I availed of Bowtime, on a train, while simultaneously decanting a liter of strong spirits into a water bottle for what should be described as legal reasons.
Have you ever got so drunk that you don't actually realise that you are? Your legs don't work, you can't see without closing one eye first, and the only words that you can seem to communicate with any clarity are swear words with a distinctly Glaswegian twang? I half suspect this might account for the accent in Scotland's largest city, sober any one of the fuckers up long enough and they'd slip immediately into received pronunciation. Well there was a man there in this state and he felt duty bound to look after me because he was the sensible one.
Bob Dylan was shit! I've complained to all and sundry about the lack of big name hits, no Rolling Stone, no Forever Young, no Blowin' In The Wind... Then I read an article in the Mail (I found it online after Googling the gig I'm not a racist!) with the headline, 'Bob Dylan deliver a dream set at Kent's Hop Farm Festival'. It contained such lines as, '...he kept the hits coming...' and 'Dylan's attitude of playing fan favourites instead of valuing self-indulgence...' Then went on to mention a stirling renditions of Rolling Stone and an amazing set closer of Forever Young. Oh dear. The irony of the latter isn't lost on me either, I decided to stay up all night drinking and get the first train home in the morning. Do you know what's a great idea when you're 18? Do you know what isn't when you're rapidly approaching 30?
Sorry anyone that had the misfortune of speaking to me, sorry train passengers and sorry Bob, please don't die before I get a chance to see you again. But he still didn't play Blowin' In The Wind, the geriatric cunt.
Have you ever got so drunk that you don't actually realise that you are? Your legs don't work, you can't see without closing one eye first, and the only words that you can seem to communicate with any clarity are swear words with a distinctly Glaswegian twang? I half suspect this might account for the accent in Scotland's largest city, sober any one of the fuckers up long enough and they'd slip immediately into received pronunciation. Well there was a man there in this state and he felt duty bound to look after me because he was the sensible one.
Bob Dylan was shit! I've complained to all and sundry about the lack of big name hits, no Rolling Stone, no Forever Young, no Blowin' In The Wind... Then I read an article in the Mail (I found it online after Googling the gig I'm not a racist!) with the headline, 'Bob Dylan deliver a dream set at Kent's Hop Farm Festival'. It contained such lines as, '...he kept the hits coming...' and 'Dylan's attitude of playing fan favourites instead of valuing self-indulgence...' Then went on to mention a stirling renditions of Rolling Stone and an amazing set closer of Forever Young. Oh dear. The irony of the latter isn't lost on me either, I decided to stay up all night drinking and get the first train home in the morning. Do you know what's a great idea when you're 18? Do you know what isn't when you're rapidly approaching 30?
Sorry anyone that had the misfortune of speaking to me, sorry train passengers and sorry Bob, please don't die before I get a chance to see you again. But he still didn't play Blowin' In The Wind, the geriatric cunt.
Saturday 26 June 2010
Lucky bag
I came across a new phenomenon in Sainsbury’s today that excited me even more than the day I once found potato bread for 17p. Which is no mean feat in itself, I still look back on that day and rate it right up there as my favourite trip to Sainsbury’s of all time. I was going through some pretty dire financial turbulence with less than a quid to my name and needed some food. I hate to sound all stereotypically Irish, but begorra, I love potato bread, so I do. You’ve got potatoes AND bread in one flat square of deliciousness, fuck raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens, they’re two of my favourite things! Work out a way to incorporate football in it and I’d probably have sex with the thing.
What’s better than that? What about a bladder of wine for £2.99? At least at the point of purchase you have to assume that it’s wine, wine that comes in a box, but no longer has the box. Just a big silver bag, with a sticker on it saying ‘Was £14.99, Now £2.99’ – Is that even a gamble? Regardless of what the liquid in the bag is, it’s still the stock market equivalent of buying BP shares. There’s at least a moderate chance that I’m now the owner of a big silver bag of donkey spunk, but at a price that would bring a tear to Eeyore’s japs eye, so who’s the winner? I’ve got it home now, I can confirm it is wine, white wine. I fucking hate white wine. And this one in particular tastes a wee bit like they’ve taken a glass of heartburn and then made it taste astonishingly like pish, and not just any pish, that first pish of a hangover, when the colour is so orange I can barely tell where pubes stop and urine begins. Not that I’ve ever actually indulged in sampling the flavour of this particular early morning delight, I’m going solely on the smell. I’ve used one of my senses to make up the mind of another, if you have difficulty accepting that, simply liken it to the fact that you don’t ever have to meet James Corden, to know he’s a cunt.
Am I disappointed by my purchase? There’s a big bag of it! And it only cost £2.99! In fact, work out a way to incorporate potato bread and it’ll be an early evening for the three of us.
What’s better than that? What about a bladder of wine for £2.99? At least at the point of purchase you have to assume that it’s wine, wine that comes in a box, but no longer has the box. Just a big silver bag, with a sticker on it saying ‘Was £14.99, Now £2.99’ – Is that even a gamble? Regardless of what the liquid in the bag is, it’s still the stock market equivalent of buying BP shares. There’s at least a moderate chance that I’m now the owner of a big silver bag of donkey spunk, but at a price that would bring a tear to Eeyore’s japs eye, so who’s the winner? I’ve got it home now, I can confirm it is wine, white wine. I fucking hate white wine. And this one in particular tastes a wee bit like they’ve taken a glass of heartburn and then made it taste astonishingly like pish, and not just any pish, that first pish of a hangover, when the colour is so orange I can barely tell where pubes stop and urine begins. Not that I’ve ever actually indulged in sampling the flavour of this particular early morning delight, I’m going solely on the smell. I’ve used one of my senses to make up the mind of another, if you have difficulty accepting that, simply liken it to the fact that you don’t ever have to meet James Corden, to know he’s a cunt.
Am I disappointed by my purchase? There’s a big bag of it! And it only cost £2.99! In fact, work out a way to incorporate potato bread and it’ll be an early evening for the three of us.
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