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You got a killer scene there, man...
No, Ms Crow...
... a change would clearly not do you good - shut up. So it's half five on the 2nd of June and still the moment of reckoning is nowhere to be seen. Fuck, it'll probably start at the exact moment that I click 'submit' on this entry.
Two things to do before then. Lookie lookie:
Keys. Specifically, the keys to our flat. Oh yes indeed, we're now officially co-habiting. Tomorrow is gonna involve me moving lots of heavy furniture up two flights of stairs. But guess what? I can't fucking wait!
Secondly, save the faves.
Rats
Outside fuckin' Hamlyn
Now, any sweeties going spare? Go on, they'll be redundant pretty soon.
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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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Over there there's friends of mine, what can I say? I've known them for a long long time
One of my very good friends turns 30 next week. He's the first one; after that, over the next 18 months, we all drop out of our 20s like rather depressed dominoes. To be honest the whole idea gets me down in a big way. One of us turning 30 is fine, but when the whole lot go that's it: the end. We're all grown ups.
Still, these things happen. There's fuck all I can do about it, right? Might as well get on with the weekend's festivities. Birthday boy has a full weekend of drunken good times planned... in Somerset. Yep, we're off to Somerset, and we're going camping.
Excuse me one second, would you mind looking out of your window? Thank you. Now I'll say it again: we're going fucking camping.
We'll survive, I mean, it's only a bit of rain. Several of us are veterans of Glastonbury '97*, when it rained for two weeks prior to the festival. It stopped as soon as 80,000 people turned up; which meant that the mud went from soup-like on Friday, to disticntly porridgy on Saturday, to sucking ceemnt on the Sunday. Trust me, after that you can handle anything. But still, we're gonna get very wet and very muddy this weekend. I don't know about you, but I think that that shows absolute friendship.
So, i'm going to be in a field in Somerset perfecting my Somme-chiq look, no doubt. Enlighten me and tell me what you'll be doing this weekend. I promise not to hate you too much.
*That wil sound so much cooler in 20 years.
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Like a conversation in a nursing home
Goth Colleague is selling some old stuff: DVDs, clothes, that sort of thing. She sends an e-mail round letting everybody know.
Blonde Colleague #1: What's a buffalo sabre?
Other Idiot Colleague: Something you use for hunting, maybe?
Booger: It's an ice hockey team. See where it says 'hockey jerseys'?
BC #1: Oh yeah, I did wonder.
OIC: I thought it was like a machete.
B: Nope, ice hockey. It's their name: the Buffalo Sabres.
Blonde Colleague #2: I like Buffy the Vampire Slayer.
B: Eh?
BC #2: The DVDs she's selling. Buffy the Vampire Slayer, y'know.
B: Yeah, but we were talking about the ice hockey tops. See above the DVDs?
BC #2: Oh yeah. What's a buffalo sabre?
B: *gritting teeth* It's the name of the team, not a thing. Buffalo... Sabres. See?
OIC: I like Buffy the Vampire Slayer, too.
BC #2: Ohhh, I see.
BC #1: Booger, do they play round here?
B: Huh?
BC #1: The Buffalo Sabres. Where do they play?
B: *tugging at hair* Erm... Buffalo!?
OIC: Ooo, clever - that's part of their name...
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To bastardise a Clash lyric...
I sought the truth, and the truth lost.
Saw the Da Vinci Code last night. Not good. Not good at all. Unfortunately, it's not bad either; no, it commits the most heinous crime a film could possibly commit - it's boring. I can watch an awful lot of shit films and not get bored, but this takes the cake. Two-and-a-half hours of not a lot, it's a cinematic Volvo. Thank fuck they cast Paul Bettany, Jean Reno and Ian McKellen - all infinitely watchable. Other than that? Dunno. It's just... not much at all.
3 out of 1-, a point each for the above named actors.
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