Bastard Blogger
That is twice now that I have posted a story, yet Blogger (for a logic only known to itself, no doubt) posted an earlier version with half the text missing.
The bastard.
It was only when I checked back before going to bed that I found out. I spent a while doing the last two posts, and generally have an attention span issue halfway through so save a draft and come back to it.
However, when I press "Publish" after finishing, it merely publishes the earlier draft and loses the changes.
Bastard.
I am grumpy now, as I think my initial finished version was better than the one I have now re-done below. But I'm too tired to do it all again.
Arse.
Bleurgh.
It would appear, after a certain amount of research last night, that as I get older 5 hours sleep is insufficient to recover from 6 pints of Guinness and a bottle of wine when combined with staying up until 5am pissing about and playing cards. Although I very much enjoyed myself; I was in the company of two ladies, one of whom is oft referred to by her friends (when asked for a description/summary) as "A mermaid". She has the long flowing hair, perfect body and face and graceful/fluid manner. She is, it may be clear already, stunning. It is surprisingly difficult to play cards with your tongue lolling gently on the table, I can assure you. And I am quite sure that James Dean never had to worry, when being cool, suave and dude-like, about blurting out "Um... You're
gorgeous!" the whole time like I did. All I have to do now is pursuade her that her boyfriend is almost entirely inconsequential to my advances, and may be safely ignored for a time...
Heh. Never been over-burdened with morals, me.
Anyway, to veer shockingly into the utterly predictable, I may have digressed. Back to the hungover thang:
I have been like a spaced-out freak all day. Although there is something to be said for this, it would seem. It appears that as I wandered aimlessly around Sainsbury's today, that my zombie-like state was apparently misinterpreted as being a sort of laid back, uber-cool (I can't be arsed to find an umlaut). At least, I can find no other way to explain why I got so many coquettish smiles and lingering looks from so many local ladies. I was (3 days or so) unshaven, wearing a crumpled and tatty T-shirt, and bimbling around like a pensioner having a decisiveness issue.
So prevalent were the looks and the smiles, that I even went to the toilet to check in the mirror to see if I had anything hanging out of my face that would've created amusing potential, but all was as it should be. Or as it usually is, anyway. There's only so much you can ask for, isn't there?
To demonstrate quite how far off the pace my brain was today, it was only when I got home that I realised that I could, and indeed probably
should, have made some sort of move/advance based on these looks I was getting. Particularly to the little blonde sort that bumped into me a little
too often (with a little smile every time) given my totally random shopping technique today.
Man, I have been kicking myself all afternoon. But for some reason I seem to be quite distracted thinking about Mermaids.
Viscious barmaid takes lump out
Viscious barmaid takes lump out
Originally uploaded by Brock.Two of the 'inner circle' of my oldest and closest friends came up this weekend for sozzled stupidity. It was massively entertaining. We did a bit of a pub crawl and ended up in a late opening bar with live music (a truly shocking band - their rendition of a U2 song was so bad the we went and pointed and laughted at them).
During our drunken frivolity, we ended up having a laugh at the upstairs bar with a couple of the barmaids - Bev and Lyndsey. Never met them before, but it was a bit of a giggle. We were all in fine fooling form and it went on till after closing time. The girls threw the rest of the customers out, then the 5 of us were pissing about at the bar being stupid and making each other laugh lots. It was great.
The details are hazy, but at some stage among the general piss taking and being incredibly stupid, we discussed the fact that Julio had had, in his time and according to him, "Three broken legs". We pointed out that one of them must have been so bad a break that it had to be amputated, being as he only has two now...
This went on a long rambling path, covering such ground as how hard it must have been finding footwear. After all, who makes shoes for 'middle' feet? I decided that the only viable option would have been to have worn a flip flop on the middle foot, as they are unhanded.
Further to this, he would have had to have had the one-strapped, rather than between the toes, style flip (only needing the one, hence no 'flop' requirement) for half the year, because otherwise he wouldn't have been able to wear socks, as the flip would shoot straight off his foot when he tried to walk and stretched the sock tight.
Not as simple as it initially sounds, this three legged logistics, you know.
The subject was touched on anew when we watched the Grand Prix the next day, because it would have been handy for drivers to have had a foot for each pedal back in the old days, being as they have that at the moment (no clutch pedal anymore). Of course the whole discussion of flame proof nomex flips had to be explored. And, while discussing which legs the seat belts would be strapped over, the whole "where do your bollocks go, when you have three legs?" debate kicked off again.
After much discussion (no. Really) we settled on one bollock in each crotch, with your Wee fella sitting on top of the middle leg. Best for symmetry, although it did rather prevent you having anything heavy on your lap. A small price to pay for being unable to fall over when drunk again from the extra stability afforded by the tripod stance, we thought.
Well that's sorted, then. I'm sure you were all wondering.
Anyway, part of the tomfoolery in the bar (skipping back to the evening) there arose sort of calling of each others bluffs, during which one of the girls and I had to do (or try to do in my case) the splits, and later she ended up biting my arm so hard that it hurt like fuck, and this picture shows the state of it the next day. I'm fairly sure that I may have brought it on myself by proclaiming "Pffft. You can bite me if you want, it won't bloody hurt, will it? You're a girl".
It fucking did, though.
Keith endeared himself enormously to Lyndsey and tested our new found friendship with her at one point after she did her splits while wearing a short skirt (very well, I might add) that he very much "Hope you're going to mop that floor now. Health and Safety, Environmental Health and all that, you know"...
It is all, as I say, a bit hazy. Although I do remember some stupidness on the way home, involving (I forget why) Julio dancing and singing on top of a telephone box, Keith throwing traffic cones at me for me to head back at him (again, I forget why) and other stupidity that seemed to involve me and Julio lying on the floor for some reason (...yeah, this bit too). Then later the all time classic of Julio spouting rubbish for a while whilst sat on the sofa before abruptly standing up, mid sentence, and announcing:
"I think I need to lie on the floor now".
He then lay down on the floor and went to sleep. We pointed and laughed at him for about 20 minutes, and then got the sofa bed out and threw him on it.
Then we pointed and laughed a bit more.
