Aha, the week off work commenceth...
Monday. Catsitter problems scrub my drive down on Sunday. Can't find my neighbour, or either of my usual two to confirm details with, so departure doesn't happen. If the neighbour's gone away for a week too, the cat'll have to come down with me and lodge with mother, a three hour drive he can do without - and frankly I can do without squeezing the cat box into the mountain of chuff that's filling the car. Eventually on Monday, locate my neighbour who's still dead pleased with the choccies I brought her back from Slovenia for looking after the hairy little demon last time I was away, and more than happy to do so again. Car filled to bursting, all plants watered and catbowls filled, and off we go...
Like a muppet, twenty miles down the road I realised that I'd left the facia panel for the car stereo in the house, and decided against going back to get it, so drove 150 miles with just the engine for company, on what is for me ... well, let's just say, Carlsberg don't make boring roads, but if they did, they'd have made the A16 to Ipswich. I have driven this road so many times in my life that it is utterly beyond any joy for me, it's three hours of abject tedium. This would be why I almost crashed into a line of stationery traffic as my mind was off doing other things, good job I've rehearsed that scenario a hundred times before in my mind and had an escape route for my emergency braking. Could fill pages with the description of slow sunday drivers, lorries, tractors, towns I've passed a hundred times before... Partney, boring; Boston, barely legal*; Kings Lynn, not fit for a queen; Thetford, bypassed; but I really wouldn't do that to you. Suffice to say, arrived in Ippo with failing light. Popped in on my erstwhile landlord, my buddy Alien Kev, then scooted across town to drop stuff off with my mother at her allotment.
Now as an aside here, I'd just like to say that since I've been away in the north, standards seem to have been slipping in my hometown, or maybe that's just the way it seems to me. On the way across town, it struck me that the inhabitants of the place seem to have been on a driving un-manners course; they've all turned into vicious rude bastards and on asking the muv' if this is the case, or am I being paranoid again, apparrently it is indeed very much so... there's a report of roadrage in the paper at least a couple of times a month - bloke sounds his horn and gets rammed then punched for his trouble instead. I've said before in my previous journal that I didn't like the way my town was going, and I still don't. If I ever live down south again, it'll not be in Ipswich.
Anyways up, dropped off what I had to drop off... my folks are big on recycling, as indeed am I so three boxes full of empty jars for jam were passed over, plus large chunks of my old bedroom carpet - don't laugh, they use it on the allotment, I think it's weed control. As my stepfather walked in front of my car to show me where to drop the stuff in the gloaming with my lights on his back (I'm not being mean, I would have given him a lift but the large amount of lawnmower taking up the passenger space kind of precluded that) I very much thought of the video to Radiohead's Karma Police, with Thom Yorke running that poor bastard to death on a desert road. Of course, David's never heard of Radiohead. Hey ho.
Anyways up, back to Chez Kev, a quick turn around and then off to the Fat Cat, a public house of splendid reputation and one of the reasons it's still good to come to Ipswich, no matter how crummy many of the inhabitants have become. First class beer on offer; massive scotch egg to tummy line, then a pint of Crouch Vale Essex Blonde followed by a pint of their own Microbrewery's Top Cat. Then off to nightclub land to student night at Zest (gawd, how old do I feel), where Whisky Chaser, a folky punk band of excellent repuation were playing. Shouldn't be dancing like that the way my lungs are at the moment. Suffered for it too. None the less, entertaining evening, plenty of nasty lagerbeer drunk 'cause I had to drink something. Hope my guts forgive me. Ended up having an extremely entertaining and in fact somewhat risque discussion with a young gentleman at the burger van who was frankly as camp as a row of tents, benter than a nine pound note and wanted to know if I was *absolutely* sure I wasn't bisexual instead of straight and therefore not in his sphere of influence. Must say he took his dissapointment well. Burger van man was a grumpy bugger though; if you don't like drunks, you shouldn't set up to work with them.
* This is a TV joke. Please keep up.
Monday. Catsitter problems scrub my drive down on Sunday. Can't find my neighbour, or either of my usual two to confirm details with, so departure doesn't happen. If the neighbour's gone away for a week too, the cat'll have to come down with me and lodge with mother, a three hour drive he can do without - and frankly I can do without squeezing the cat box into the mountain of chuff that's filling the car. Eventually on Monday, locate my neighbour who's still dead pleased with the choccies I brought her back from Slovenia for looking after the hairy little demon last time I was away, and more than happy to do so again. Car filled to bursting, all plants watered and catbowls filled, and off we go...
Like a muppet, twenty miles down the road I realised that I'd left the facia panel for the car stereo in the house, and decided against going back to get it, so drove 150 miles with just the engine for company, on what is for me ... well, let's just say, Carlsberg don't make boring roads, but if they did, they'd have made the A16 to Ipswich. I have driven this road so many times in my life that it is utterly beyond any joy for me, it's three hours of abject tedium. This would be why I almost crashed into a line of stationery traffic as my mind was off doing other things, good job I've rehearsed that scenario a hundred times before in my mind and had an escape route for my emergency braking. Could fill pages with the description of slow sunday drivers, lorries, tractors, towns I've passed a hundred times before... Partney, boring; Boston, barely legal*; Kings Lynn, not fit for a queen; Thetford, bypassed; but I really wouldn't do that to you. Suffice to say, arrived in Ippo with failing light. Popped in on my erstwhile landlord, my buddy Alien Kev, then scooted across town to drop stuff off with my mother at her allotment.
Now as an aside here, I'd just like to say that since I've been away in the north, standards seem to have been slipping in my hometown, or maybe that's just the way it seems to me. On the way across town, it struck me that the inhabitants of the place seem to have been on a driving un-manners course; they've all turned into vicious rude bastards and on asking the muv' if this is the case, or am I being paranoid again, apparrently it is indeed very much so... there's a report of roadrage in the paper at least a couple of times a month - bloke sounds his horn and gets rammed then punched for his trouble instead. I've said before in my previous journal that I didn't like the way my town was going, and I still don't. If I ever live down south again, it'll not be in Ipswich.
Anyways up, dropped off what I had to drop off... my folks are big on recycling, as indeed am I so three boxes full of empty jars for jam were passed over, plus large chunks of my old bedroom carpet - don't laugh, they use it on the allotment, I think it's weed control. As my stepfather walked in front of my car to show me where to drop the stuff in the gloaming with my lights on his back (I'm not being mean, I would have given him a lift but the large amount of lawnmower taking up the passenger space kind of precluded that) I very much thought of the video to Radiohead's Karma Police, with Thom Yorke running that poor bastard to death on a desert road. Of course, David's never heard of Radiohead. Hey ho.
Anyways up, back to Chez Kev, a quick turn around and then off to the Fat Cat, a public house of splendid reputation and one of the reasons it's still good to come to Ipswich, no matter how crummy many of the inhabitants have become. First class beer on offer; massive scotch egg to tummy line, then a pint of Crouch Vale Essex Blonde followed by a pint of their own Microbrewery's Top Cat. Then off to nightclub land to student night at Zest (gawd, how old do I feel), where Whisky Chaser, a folky punk band of excellent repuation were playing. Shouldn't be dancing like that the way my lungs are at the moment. Suffered for it too. None the less, entertaining evening, plenty of nasty lagerbeer drunk 'cause I had to drink something. Hope my guts forgive me. Ended up having an extremely entertaining and in fact somewhat risque discussion with a young gentleman at the burger van who was frankly as camp as a row of tents, benter than a nine pound note and wanted to know if I was *absolutely* sure I wasn't bisexual instead of straight and therefore not in his sphere of influence. Must say he took his dissapointment well. Burger van man was a grumpy bugger though; if you don't like drunks, you shouldn't set up to work with them.
* This is a TV joke. Please keep up.
posted by Fred the Singing Bandit at 3:40 am
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