So farewell then....
It's always a shame when you say goodbye to a regular character in your life or indeed the life of your blog, but say goodbye I must. To Christine the gay coloured Hellbound Honda who is no longer stopping the grass from growing in my front garden, she has departed on to other things. The surprising thing is that those other things don't involve the smelter, they actually involve going vroom and I actually got some money for her. Flogged her to a young petrolhead boy racer'y type from Newcastle who is into Honda's and pretty confident he can pimp her into something very zoomy indeed. Fairysnuff, the boy's got a hobby and best of luck to him. In fairness she hauled my fat arse around for many, many miles and even after the stresses she caused me, I'd rather see her running and continuing to exist than just being a bit'sa or scrap. And my garden's marginally tidier. Now to get the Kwakker going again....
Also cheerio for a while to Tabs the kitten who's heading back to scouserland; we've had warfare at Fortress Mike this weekend as the two black toms jockey for position. Tabs has the athleticism and attitude; Giz the experience, accuracy and disdain. Of course I'm biased. And poor old Tabs doesn't understand why we side with Giz. 'Coz it's his house you fool! He also can't understand why I don't want somebody who walks in his own turds jumping up and walking on my kitchen worktop.
And a leaving do at work for the bald Essex man who's departing for sunnier climes and more profitable work. It's the third party I've been to involving him; he was one of my trainers on Basic all those years back; and he left on foreign secondment about four years back so there was a bash then. I think we've gotten rid of him for good this time, which makes me token southern bloke on the stations. I'm learning to speak like a twat, wear chunky jewellery and prefix every comment with the phrase "apples and...". Arrived at a party late, as I'd gone to see a mate first, got hijacked by some of the younger lads and forced against my better judgment to go to a salubrious nightclub, one "Legends" and it's legendarily bad. Every town needs a sweaty horrible dive; this place has several. I do however have a set of awful photographs with which to embarrass my colleagues at some point later to be sprung on them. Oh joy. In fact, it does seem since the quack's put me on a more rigid diet routine with the "drink in moderation" advice, party life has gone mad and I have in fact been; to quote Father Dougal; "drinking like a mad eeedjit". Out again last night; my "few pints at the nice bar at the station" turned into a many pub/many pint beer and coctail fest.... oh horrible coctails, leave me alone.... and you'll be glad to know I feel accordingly awful today. Well, got to have some fun left, haven't we.
Also cheerio for a while to Tabs the kitten who's heading back to scouserland; we've had warfare at Fortress Mike this weekend as the two black toms jockey for position. Tabs has the athleticism and attitude; Giz the experience, accuracy and disdain. Of course I'm biased. And poor old Tabs doesn't understand why we side with Giz. 'Coz it's his house you fool! He also can't understand why I don't want somebody who walks in his own turds jumping up and walking on my kitchen worktop.
And a leaving do at work for the bald Essex man who's departing for sunnier climes and more profitable work. It's the third party I've been to involving him; he was one of my trainers on Basic all those years back; and he left on foreign secondment about four years back so there was a bash then. I think we've gotten rid of him for good this time, which makes me token southern bloke on the stations. I'm learning to speak like a twat, wear chunky jewellery and prefix every comment with the phrase "apples and...". Arrived at a party late, as I'd gone to see a mate first, got hijacked by some of the younger lads and forced against my better judgment to go to a salubrious nightclub, one "Legends" and it's legendarily bad. Every town needs a sweaty horrible dive; this place has several. I do however have a set of awful photographs with which to embarrass my colleagues at some point later to be sprung on them. Oh joy. In fact, it does seem since the quack's put me on a more rigid diet routine with the "drink in moderation" advice, party life has gone mad and I have in fact been; to quote Father Dougal; "drinking like a mad eeedjit". Out again last night; my "few pints at the nice bar at the station" turned into a many pub/many pint beer and coctail fest.... oh horrible coctails, leave me alone.... and you'll be glad to know I feel accordingly awful today. Well, got to have some fun left, haven't we.
posted by Fred the Singing Bandit at 12:16 pm
1 Comments:
Aw poor car she was a giggle up and down the hills. Poor Tabs no doubt dreading the threat of catnip. Poor you who so ever would make you drink evil cocktails, next time tip don't try mine then sup yours.
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