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Bootiful [Nov. 13th, 2006|04:39 pm]
[mood |chipperchipper]
[music |Shiny, happy people (I'm not actually...)]

I traveled all the way from Ben Crouch's Tavern, with a selection of work colleagues, to Dom and Rosie's engagement party.

Normally, this would be a logistical nightmare for anyone, but not so for this dedicated team…

However, no one had thought to retain the email displaying the name of the place or, in fact, where it was. So, armed with little more than dazzlingly pretty eyes and a rough idea that it was somewhere near Charlotte Street, we sent forth into the chilly London night, like innocents abroad...

Once again, a stunning lack of organisation shone through, as we drunkenly prepared to buy 'quality' engagement gifts en route. There was one shop still open. And considering that, from first appearance, it seemed to sell nothing more than 'Mind the Gap' knickers, fake plastic tits and leather beanies, we weren't too hopeful.

But luckily some people have more resolve than me and some nice gifts were indeed purchased: earrings for the lady and a rather smart-looking Bowler for sir. Dom cut quite a dash actually. And his gift was clearly the better of the two, considering we later found out that Rosie doesn't actually have her ears pierced. (How were we supposed to know? She's a girl and stuff. Isn't it mandatory?)

After a protracted period of fannying about asking Fitzrovia's resident hairy Goths and old drunks where the Club was (Ollie evidently thinks this is what Rosie's friends look like) we managed to find The Roxy.

Rosemary glided across the room like a particularly pleasant and ingratiating swan, and greeted us with smiles. She even managed to look pleased to see us, which considering that we basically sat around the bar, quaffing ale and laughing like Joeys, was quite nice, when you think about it.

'We've bought you gifts...' I guffawed, my eyes rolling like Richard Blackwood's would, if he'd ever been faced with a sum. Rosie frowned: 'It's fake plastic tits, isn't it?'

Hm. Maybe for the wedding…

The formalities and gifts dispensed with, I proceeded to dance. Catching sight of myself in a mirrored pillar, half-way through a particularly aggressive 'move', I looked like a slightly battered Ollie Reed dressed up like one of Tony Blair's children. It's a sad moment in your life when this happens to you. And it will, believe me. I gave up dancing that same second.

There were some very sweet moments, Rosie and Dom's smoochy slow dance, for example. All the ladies were misty-eyed at that moment. But, to be honest, a lot of them were like that before I turned up...so…

And we managed to send Rosie off well (she wasn't actually going anywhere, but we didn't know that), when those rum coves at the bar turned the music off, we performed a rousing, knees-up version of 'You're so vain'. It put you in mind of the war! (That was shit too, I'm given to understand.)

Anyway, all said, it was a very lovely day.

And three cheers for the glamorous couple.

Huzzah! Whoop! Et cetera.
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For Rosie... [Oct. 20th, 2006|01:13 pm]
[Current Location |London]
[mood |thirstythirsty]
[music |Baby Love]

I got onto the Tube with ease at Liverpool Street.

Just as I skipped on, the doors closed. Nice. A minor victory on the day...

I watched happily as the train on the opposite side of the platform pulled up and all these oafs in suits chuffed over stamping on each other's feet. The doors slid shut. And they hit them like flies hitting a windscreen. Glaring in, with their gutted fish-like faces, they covet the fetid air of the carriage...

The train moves off...

Just then, it stops. And the doors reopen! And all this stinking rabble get in. So now I am no longer reading my newspaper I am standing virtually cheek-to-cheek with what I assume is a snogging gay couple. (It's actually just a very ugly woman and a man couple) and an enormous 30-stone businessman trots fatly up to carriage on his nasty little hooves, and belly flops (Sumo-style) his way in, with a brusquely-administered 'Excuse me...' By which, what he really means is 'Get out of my fuc*in' way...') As if we had any choice in the matter, everyone falls backwards swearing. And now my face is pushed against the outer glass.

I sigh, as the train announcer crackles to life: 'Sorry, about that...we did have a sick woman in one of the rear carriages...'

In my mind, I now blame this poor, sick woman for all the ills of the World.

London does not make you a nice person.
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And there ain't no war in my head now... [Oct. 20th, 2006|11:43 am]
[Current Location |London]
[mood |chipperchipper]
[music |Tea for the Tillerman]


Sorry, haven't been at all miserable recently, so there seems little point in adding anything. I really only do poorly-informed rant, as you know.

Have found myself listening to Carole King's 'Beautiful' in the mornings...

Not good for a man who is essentially fuelled by hate. Alas, I am going soft in my dotage. And not just physically, it seems.

Congratulations to the amazing Rosemary for getting herself engaged. Good work, lady.

And the chap in question passes muster.

Anyway, until I'm miserable again, I shall bid you farewell.

I'll leave you with this:


Happy Hallowee'n, kids.
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Good Night Sweetheart [Sep. 4th, 2006|09:27 pm]
[Current Location |Gatwick Airport]
[mood |tiredBut happy]
[music |The sound of cancelled flights and heavy sighs]

Well, it's time to go...

I hate to leave you, but I really must say, good night sweetheart.

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Teenage Kips (Right through the night...) [Sep. 1st, 2006|11:07 am]
[mood |confusedconfused]
[music |Missing Children - Teddy Thompson]

I can't wait until I have my own weird Arian children to dress up like this:


Americans scare me sometimes...

No child of mine sleeps without a shield.
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The man from the home counties: 'e say yes. [Aug. 31st, 2006|09:49 am]
[mood |chipperchipper]
[music |Bill Grundy Interview]

Well, I have a busy weekend of moving flat and setting off to the new world for my brother's wedding. He's marrying a Colombian woman - called Maria (not surprisingly, I suppose).

Anyway, looking forward to faffing about in a linen suit and testing fruit. Not looking forward to possible kidnappings - in this eventuality I propose getting instant Stockholm syndrome and having a nice time of it.

Being best man (If I'm your best man, you should really stop and think about your life...) apparently I have to cop off with a bridesmaid! It’s a dirty job…dag nabbit.

Also, I have been toying with the idea of talking about cocaine ALL THE TIME. I bet they never tire of that! God, they'd think I was hilarious...


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Bigger Boys Made Me Do It! [Aug. 30th, 2006|03:55 pm]
[mood |awakeawake]
[music |Dolly Parton! (Hah! I'm SO gay)]

Look at me, Mum! I'm updating my journal!

Hello. Hope everyone is well...

I'm feeling perky. Two coffees perky...
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It's a thinker. [Jun. 22nd, 2006|12:50 pm]
[mood |chipperchipper]
[music |Cogs turning]

Sales Girl: 'Why the bags? Are you going somewhere?'

Me: 'Yes I am'

Sales Girl: 'Ooh. How posh! (?) Where are you going?'

Me: 'Sweden'

Sales Girl: 'Bring me back something!'

Me: 'Like what?'

Sales Girl: (Thinking, then 'Eureka' moment) 'Some Swiss Cheese!'

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Midsommer's Night Scream [Jun. 20th, 2006|02:34 pm]
[mood |anxiousanxious]
[music |Too drunk to Fuck]

I am going to Sweden on Thursday, ostensibly for Sweden’s top Heathen festival ‘Midsommer’, but really just to see my friend Klas, who I haven’t seen for a while.

Anyway, I asked around the Scandinavian Editorial Department at my work to find out what I should be expecting (Klas has been disconcertingly vague):


Signe, described the following:

A blonde Swedish young girl will pick seven different flowers to put under her pillow and will think of her husband to be, you.

Nina replied, instead:

Well, not trying to scare you, but APPARENTLY there's an old tradition for getting very drunk and getting laid that particular night.

Sorry, shouldn't have said anything, I bet you won't go now...

And finally Layton:

I was going to say that if Klas is involved there is likely going to be a lot of heavy drinking, many women present, and a good chance of some sweet summer loving. Just don't hold me to it, should any of these not materialise. Besides, I am a true Dane so I know not of these heathen celebrations.

Oh dear.

I wonder how my natural English reserve (i.e, fear) will hold?

I’ll be like Jonathan Harker, minus Keanu reeves’ weird Californian accent.
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In the midst of life, we are in death [Jun. 19th, 2006|01:59 pm]
[mood |tiredtired]
[music |Johnny, Johnny, Johnny - Shonen Knife]

Good Lord, but I’m tired.

I went home this weekend to spend time with man auld fella, it being Father’s day and all. And I am a dutiful son. The calf was fattened in preparation for my triumphant return.

Anyway, I managed to get him to go to a country pub (No easy task, he could sense I was trying to do something nice and bolted. In the end, I was forced to use all my guile. So that’s all gone now. Great. And, as a result, I can’t even think of a way of tricking someone into giving me theirs…) and got him smashed on some classic old man ales…Fursty Ferret being his favourite.

I foolishly decided to stay at my parent’s house for the evening, the trip back to London late at night is annoying and, in any case, I was feeling distinctly delicate…

However, I had forgotten something! When my father was seriously ill a few years ago, he decided - in some slightly weird, sustained period of Freudian insanity - that he must fill every room in the house with clocks. I guess he thought his time was running out or something. Anyway, he’s better now (They took out a large section of his belly and rewired him; he was quite gutted, in fact), but the clocks remain. I lay in bed yesterday and the fucking Westminster chimes drilling into my head every 15 minutes, from all over the house. And because most of these clocks are antiques, they don’t keep very good time, so they were all fractionally – and torturously – out of sync.

(The clocks thing is a bit odd. But the more I see of my parents, the more I’m convinced that there’s never been a history of sanity in the family…)

At five o’clock in the morning I was still awake, and now listening to some ludicrous fucking fascist woman called Ann Coulter talking about her novel ‘Godless’…(An expose of American Liberals, which allegedly concludes the widows of 9/11 are a bunch money-grabbing bastards and Bush is great) and becoming mad with anger and sleep derivation.

Show me the way to go home…
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Oh, that's all right then... [Jun. 16th, 2006|02:13 pm]
[mood |confusedconfused]

David Icke has strongly denied that he is an anti-Semite, stressing that the Rothschilds are reptiles, not Jews.
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He has three leopards on his shirt! [Jun. 16th, 2006|11:05 am]
[Current Location |London, Engerland]
[mood |drunkdrunk]
[music |De rid-hot chilly perpers...they ROCK!]

Hi, I was really loving the British football game yesterday.

It was all looking to be over...it is now!

Boris Beckham played some mean swerve ball shots, his fancy flicks made my eyes hurt in my head. For some minutes I could not see my own eyes!

The game was tiresome and went on forever, for 80 minutes, but then they brought on Rodney and he did nothing but was stylish. His face is like a pie!

And John Lennon was power house,

Two-nil. Briton are the best!

This is why I am chosing to live here now.

Beckham has the golden testes!

And would win the golden shoe, if he is not dry due to lack of refreshment drinks.
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Bona drag, sweet... [May. 30th, 2006|12:20 pm]
[mood |amusedamused]
[music |Truly, truly, truly disappointed]

I saw a couple of dapper old gents sitting in the Royal Inn, Bethnal Green, yesterday dressed in sky blue and silk scarves - think Tony Hart.

One turned to the other and gestured to a woman bending over a table and said: 'Look at 'er. No lallies in 'er kaffies...'

And the other snorted derisively.

Good God, polari survives!
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Why don't you... [May. 26th, 2006|05:07 pm]
[mood |happyhappy]
[music |Girls on film.]

Forget about your worries, forget about your cares...

And laugh at this man instead:


In the words of Mike Reid, 'What a wally...'

Is it illegal to take pictures of ladies' legs on the Tube?

(I only ask out of interest, you understand, I'm not planning a campaign, but I'm guessing it must be? Anyone?)

Anyway.......good long weekends, one and all!

Be seeing you.

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Everything's always heaven [May. 25th, 2006|12:41 pm]
[mood |curiouscurious]
[music |Sunday Morning Coming Down]

Came home last night to find my housemate's dressing gown sprawled across my bed! He'd been ill and at home for the last few days...

So, anyway, managed to broach this conversation this morning:

'Hey', with the obligatory, polite-nervous chuckle. 'I found your dressing gown in my bedroom last night...'

'Oh really...?' He trails off, I wait to see if anything is added by way of explanation. Finally it is: 'Yeah, it was in the living room the other day...'

'OK...' I replied weakly. 'Well, that's even more mysterious then'.

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You're just a trumped up pantry boy that never knew his place... [May. 24th, 2006|11:37 am]
[mood |confusedconfused]
[music |You're so vain.]

I am a terrible snob. I don't know how or why. I don't have the background to be a snob...


People reading the Da Vinci Code on the Tube actually annoy me. I don't know why.

People that buy shoes with buckles on them annoy me.

People that hang St. George crosses from their cars annoy me.

People that routinely say 'Pacific' when they mean 'specific' annoy me.

And yet, big things pass me by...

The World is full of inconsiderate, selfish bastards and these things rattle me! Something isn't right...

My priorites are all out of whack.
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So fair and foul a day... [May. 23rd, 2006|12:16 pm]
[mood |contemplativecontemplative]
[music |Freak]

‘Hey, we're just a representative sample of the people in this country right now…’ said a woman on Big Brother last night.

Good God, I hope not. If that is true, I’m never leaving the house again.

The days of the freak show are not over, people, the only thing is they’ve moved from the side show to the main act.

My word, what a terrible bunch of wankers! And each little-knowing (and they are each little-knowing) that they are, in their horrible special ways, encompassing a load of hackneyed stereotypes, that if someone wrote down they’d be accused -quite rightly - of all manner of crimes against political correctness. Genuinely, I didn’t think people like this existed. Have I led a sheltered life…?

So last night’s gripping instalment (really, why do I do it to myself? Actually my psychotherapist once told me that if it didn’t hurt, I didn’t think it was real. Perhaps he has a point after all…) I sat and watched a 40 year old man throw tantrums and weep incessantly, telling people ‘I don’t like you…’. I watched some vaguely maternal-sounding skinhead tell the assembled crowds ‘don’t take any notice of him, children’, a dull-eyed, horrendously unattractive ‘model’ complain to just about everyone in the house about some poor woman’s BO problem, and then pretend she cared about the woman’s feelings five minutes later. And, of course, the obligatory ‘lad’… 'Wahay!I’ll get my cock out…’

What is it with the British? Why do we love it so? If it’s not this, then it’s watching John Fashanu work himself into a laughable frenzy before having a spider put on his head, or a squat Australian in khaki shorts trying to feed his offspring to a crocodile…

Bring back hanging, I say. And televise it.
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Once more with feeling......... [May. 17th, 2006|03:02 pm]
[mood |tiredtired]
[music |That's Life...]

This is how bored and uninspired I am today:

I’m staring out at a dismal grey street, under grey skies, noting down the number of grey vans that drive by with ‘ALSO AVALIBLE IN WHITE’ written across them…

Have also, 1. Not slept now for three days. 2. Slumped into a hearty depression again. (And I was so good, for so long…) 3. A head ache.

Anyway, to demonstrate just how bored I am, the following is a list of the things on my desk: (Correct at time of print)

1. Glasses case.
2. Mobile phone. (Slightly water-damaged)
3. 2 books: Gerald Kersh – Fowlers End, Charles Nicholl - The Reckoning – The Murder of Christopher Marlowe
4. Picture of Infant nephew. (Gets me through the day!)
5. A plastic capsule from a Kinda Egg.
6. A Chicken Little model (with Baseball Bat) from said Kinda Egg.
7. Green Tea
8. Honey
9. Some pointless Business Cards. (They are pointless for two reasons I don’t meet clients, they have my old job title on them)
10. A small red thing with HOLMES PLACE inscribed on it. I have no idea what this is. Or how it came to be.
11. The new – slightly disappointing- Morrissey album.
12. A wooden replica of Big Ben. (The Clock, not the bloke from Accounts…)
13. A card (Adam Ant featured).
14. A tie.
15. The reams of paper work, I’m conspicuously not doing.
16. And a fluffy clemmy. (If you get that reference, you’re very old…)

And that’s it.
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Actually I'm pretty happy at the moment. [May. 4th, 2006|12:48 pm]
[Current Location |Chocolate and strawberries...]
[mood |surprisedsurprised]

Goldberg's depression test

You have reached level 57 on the Goldberg scale.

0 - 9 Depression unlikely 21 - 35 Minor to moderate depression
10 - 17 Possibly minor depression 36 - 53 Moderate to severe depression
18 - 21 On the verge of depression 54+ Severe depression

I passed with flying colours!

(My Mother will be pleased...)
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Oh my boys, my boys... [May. 2nd, 2006|02:43 pm]
[mood |rejuvenatedrejuvenated]
[music |Micky eating muffins.]


I just saw a dog shit in the street. Needless to say, I will never eat sausages again...

Anyone miss me?

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