Monday, May 31, 2004
Don’t stand on me, I’m a parrot, you wanker
It started at 5pm when, according to my older, slimmer, less blind (but only just) brother (the footballer in the family) the sun was “brighter and hotter than [he had] ever seen it!” Delirious, almost; we were in a beer garden, where garden = white concrete reflecting light back at us and beer = well, beer. Guinness. Cider. “This isn’t Scrumpy, this is shit.” Two, and Ben departs, and on we move, to play pool (I am not skilled, but HOTDAMN I can pull off the spectacular and ridiculous from time to time; not often enough to win though much like football) and drink warm American lager (your fridge takes THREE hours to cool beer to the correct temperature, love, so TURN THE FUCKER ON SOONER). And then, after Vince and Matt arrive (camera in hand), we moved on again, primarily because the ferret was full of eejits. Whereas the Railway was full of parrots. (We did call somewhere else inbetween – stared at teenagers snogging on the Lawn, brother walked into banister, etcetera.) “Wanker” says the parrot. “That’s the funniest thing I’ve EVER seen” says my brother. “Wanker” says the parrot. “That’s the funniest thing I’ve EVER seen” says my brother. “Wanker” says the parrot. “That’s the funniest thing I’ve EVER seen” says my brother. “Wanker” says the parrot. “That’s the funniest thing I’ve EVER seen” says my brother. DO YOU GET IT, DO YOU DO YOU DO YOU? Tedius, but amusing, especially when the parrot said “cunt” and started French-kissing the landlord. (I’m sure this happened last year, too?) And then to the last pub, to sit beneath a heater on the patio and drink Jack Daniels until gone midnight, to be affronted (inbetween pubs) by a Muslim kebab salesman – “People think Muslims don’t drink yeah, but I love to drink yeah, I’d drink 24 hours a day if I could yeah, I had some drink at lunchtime yeah, I love to drink yeah, chicken sandwich and chips yeah”, yeah mate, yeah, remind me not to go drinking with you yeah - and there are no parrots here, but there is a late licence, and I buy the barmaid a drink at just past midnight because it’s only fair (every other fucker gone home) (landlord still knows my name even though I go in maybe only four times a year lately). And then we’re climbing a rock? A cliff? Sandstone all down my trousers. “I’m afraid of heights but I’m alright up here” says Jim, “I can’t come down though.” And then I get home (1am, maybe?) and prepare to go to bed (shoes & socks off) and fuck me but my foot is black, how did that happen? Refer to Thursday’s post (or was it Friday?) about John Plunkett’s knee, and also that gnarly, out-of-focus picture just underneath. And trust me, it looks worse in the flesh. But a jolly good time was had by all.
NJS
5/31/2004 10:35:00 pm
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