Bloody hell, I shouldn't have done that. Possibly the most underused but most sincerely meant phrases in the English language, usually after you've just fallen down a lift shaft or eaten a whole large pizza after spending the night bouncing from pub to pub getting drunk out of your mind on cider. I could ask you to judge by my obviously-alive state which one I've been up to this evening, but then I would have to gloss over the anecdote whereby me and my drinking companions inadvertently kept an entire pub staff up and waiting before we left, them slamming the doors unceremoniously behind us, glad to be shot of our alcohol-riddled half-carcasses.
Never, ever, even under the influence of eight pints of cider and a not inconsiderable amount of fortified wine, assume you can stomach an entire 12" chicken and jalapeno pizza. At least not without losing half your innards and gaining four chins. Especially when you've been made sick to your stomach by the undignified failure of the England team to do anything they remotely should have done against some postmen and an accountant pretending to be a football team, i.e. score a decent amount of goals.
We also have to contend with the fact that our fastest rising boxing star, Amir Khan, was knocked out in under a minute by a giant-headed Colombian man named Prescott.
I'm going to ignore all that, however, and the fact that half of Britain is once again under water, and concentrate on the real nub of the issue plaguing this once-great nation: There is not a single nightclub within twenty miles of my house, that knows what a guitar is. Hundreds of R'n'B nightclubs litter the streets hither and thither, but not a single one wants to play 'Paradise City', even for all the money I spend on drink in the average evening, which, as I discovered earlier, is infinitely considerable.
Are there really that many people going to the 'R'n'B' clubs? There seem to be more than there are people in my local area, and I can't truly believe that none of them seem to have twigged onto the fact that there is no bigger-drinking societal subgroup than the one which drinks to forget the reasons they identify with far too many Pink Floyd songs for comfort. Surely one of the fifty-six seperate venues between here and the nearest rock club has realised that they have a captive audience, should they stop trying to ram DJ Bling Daddy Dogg down everyone's throat? Surely one of them must realise that while they would be giving up their share of the blinding-white-trainered mob, there really is only so much Stella Artois they can drink without punching each other in the face and rolling out onto the pavement, and it's considerably less than those afflicted by the torturous agonies that only a leather jacket and a scraggly beard can possibly hide?
One that hopefully doesn't play a great deal of Ozzy Osbourne, not because I dislike the man's music, but because I can't enjoy it as much as I used to, seeing as I couldn't look the man in the eye while wanting to do such terrible things to his daughter.
Anyway, I would give you a news update or at least some links in this now rather long-winded ranting, but I've been on the lash and have also spent six of my last twenty-four hours with my hand jammed down my toilet thrashing away at all manner of horrors just to avoid the cost of calling out Dyno-Rod, so I hope you'll excuse me if I choose a time to disappear and get my head down for a bit. Like now.
Hopefully Lewis Hamilton can win the Formula One tomorow, but if British sport keeps going the way it's going this weekend, he'll probably spontaneously combust before he even gets in the fucking car.
Yes, I know Andy Murray won, but it's not like tennis is a real sport. I also have considerable difficulty seeing past his adolescent, England-hating, petty little oik of a personality.
Goodnight.
Never, ever, even under the influence of eight pints of cider and a not inconsiderable amount of fortified wine, assume you can stomach an entire 12" chicken and jalapeno pizza. At least not without losing half your innards and gaining four chins. Especially when you've been made sick to your stomach by the undignified failure of the England team to do anything they remotely should have done against some postmen and an accountant pretending to be a football team, i.e. score a decent amount of goals.
We also have to contend with the fact that our fastest rising boxing star, Amir Khan, was knocked out in under a minute by a giant-headed Colombian man named Prescott.
I'm going to ignore all that, however, and the fact that half of Britain is once again under water, and concentrate on the real nub of the issue plaguing this once-great nation: There is not a single nightclub within twenty miles of my house, that knows what a guitar is. Hundreds of R'n'B nightclubs litter the streets hither and thither, but not a single one wants to play 'Paradise City', even for all the money I spend on drink in the average evening, which, as I discovered earlier, is infinitely considerable.
Are there really that many people going to the 'R'n'B' clubs? There seem to be more than there are people in my local area, and I can't truly believe that none of them seem to have twigged onto the fact that there is no bigger-drinking societal subgroup than the one which drinks to forget the reasons they identify with far too many Pink Floyd songs for comfort. Surely one of the fifty-six seperate venues between here and the nearest rock club has realised that they have a captive audience, should they stop trying to ram DJ Bling Daddy Dogg down everyone's throat? Surely one of them must realise that while they would be giving up their share of the blinding-white-trainered mob, there really is only so much Stella Artois they can drink without punching each other in the face and rolling out onto the pavement, and it's considerably less than those afflicted by the torturous agonies that only a leather jacket and a scraggly beard can possibly hide?
One that hopefully doesn't play a great deal of Ozzy Osbourne, not because I dislike the man's music, but because I can't enjoy it as much as I used to, seeing as I couldn't look the man in the eye while wanting to do such terrible things to his daughter.
Anyway, I would give you a news update or at least some links in this now rather long-winded ranting, but I've been on the lash and have also spent six of my last twenty-four hours with my hand jammed down my toilet thrashing away at all manner of horrors just to avoid the cost of calling out Dyno-Rod, so I hope you'll excuse me if I choose a time to disappear and get my head down for a bit. Like now.
Hopefully Lewis Hamilton can win the Formula One tomorow, but if British sport keeps going the way it's going this weekend, he'll probably spontaneously combust before he even gets in the fucking car.
Yes, I know Andy Murray won, but it's not like tennis is a real sport. I also have considerable difficulty seeing past his adolescent, England-hating, petty little oik of a personality.
Goodnight.
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