I Wonder

Let's refresh.

AMEN

Blogging to me is a safety valve outlet. It allows me to clear the slate, and summarise my past week or month in a coded way. Technically, it's my diary. I don't like the word blogging though. I'm not sure why, but it seems too buzzwordy. Buzzwords (buzzword is a buzzword in itself!) irritate me because they make me feel stupid, like I'm just using this word that is in fashion. Take for instance, current affairs. You hear people say "current economic climate" a lot in a bid to sound clever and as though they have a dissertation to back up the ridiculously bull-shit statement they've just made. Also, I think it excites them to use a word generally associated with the weather in a different context. And in the "political sphere" those left and right of centre have their own core phrases and words that they use over and over and over and over and over again. Eventually, we all become obsessed with re-using these buzz words to sound knowledgeable about subjects we know fuck all about.  Take the riots for instance. How many times did you hear "televisions" and "trainers", or "children as young as ten" in news reports. True it may be, but why tell us the same things constantly as if it we are hearing it for the first time. After the 12th time I'm bored. I mean, it's not as though they are trying to manipulate our thoughts or anything.

Blogging is a recent hobby of mine and I like it. it's nice that I have a humble core of people who seem to enjoy it. In fact, I love you people who read it and understand it...you are rare. You share that passion for dark surrealist humor as much as I do, and what is key is your understanding of irony. Can you imagine that people didn't know this blog was for comic value?! Can you imagine people read my blog, and called me a "cunt" because of it, advised to me close it down, or thought me arrogant as a result?! Apparently I'm "creepy" "egotistical" and "weeeeeeiiiiirrrrrdddddd". Somehow, the blog has projected an image of narcissism. Somehow, I love myself and some people have taken from it that I think that I am great with women??? Yes, from reading my blog, people think that I am showing off how great I am with women...??? And, dear followers, can you imagine I'd be so much of a bitch to be affected by this and temporarily not write blogs?! I am sorry. I can't apologise enough for having let you all down these past few months. So, next time you are brushing your teeth, I want you to pause for a moment, look at yourself in the mirror, and whisper loud enough for it to be just barely audible... "you're special". Try to make a sort of gentle whistley sound.


I know at least one of you will actually do this. You have my personal thanks <3.

The worst part is, these people are correct. How on Earth did they break my code. I do love myself - LOADS!

Golly gosh oh golly.

Anyway, "Shazam - Pool Party" has just come on my iTunes - I had to check iTunes to see what was playing. Never heard of this song, or remember hearing it either for that matter. When had I gone to the effort of purchasing this song? It's making me wish I was somewhere more glamorous.

Perhaps I downloaded it that time I was involved in a foursome with those three Scandinavian girls who read my blog about dona kebabs, deciphered the code, and realised I was really writing about Kama Sutra positions and all of my loving experiences, chartered a flight to Glasgow and broke in through my bedroom window.

By the way...when brushing your teeth, try not to get froth on your clothes as a controversial stain reappears later on in the day. This stain can lead to break ups bust ups and resignations. All this paranoia because of a little bit of toothpaste. It's just a little patch of toothpaste that has landed on your groin area. It's only a white stain by the fly of your black trousers. You go to the toilet, wet a tissue and scrub vigorously until it disappears. But, does it really disappear? Oh no, it comes back....with vengeance. You then find yourself walking around with not only a controversial white stain all over your groin area, but a moist white stain. Yes, a moist, white, controversial stain, just beside your fly. You frequent the toilet to scrub vigorously with dampened cloth. You are seen leaving the toilet each hour with a moist white controversial stain by your groin. This happens every day. You never learn. Every morning you are so tired you spit and miss the sink, and thus the vicious cycle of moist white controversial stain begins again. It is like a biblical curse/plague. Let's put an end to it. Let's raise awareness.


Let's catchup.

When I touched down in Gatwick airport a funny thing happened.  Waiting for my luggage, I saw a group of elderly people, let's say seven or eight of them, trying to conquer the conveyor belt and get their bags back. They were officially elderly because they were all beige, white and cream from their hair to their shoes. What was interesting however was their behaviour. It was very collective. They were focused heavily on the task in hand: OPERATION BAGGAGE RECLAIM. I suspect this collective thinking comes from the London Blitz. The elderly men were on the front line, YES, I am making WWII references, but they were literally on the yellow line; not a step beyond it. Confused and perplexed they stood, shuffling around and trying to remember why they were there, scoping out for some beige luggage, through their chunky transparent plastic spectacles. Bless them.

Gift from the Queen on your 75th Birthday

After a few minutes, a beige bag was on the radar. Alfred shuffled frantically. As he shuffled his eyebrow hairs tickled the elderly fellow on his left, causing him to turn his head, subsequently tickling Alfred with the white hairs protruding from his ears. This tickling went on repeatedly until the real action started.

I know his name because "Alfred, no! your back" was shouted by a confused, concerned yet adoring wife from the sideline.

Alfred had mobilised. He breached the line, and with two hands he grabbed the beaten beige leather handle of his luggage, and two-step shuffled in parallel with the bag down the straight of the conveyor belt. In the confusion, Alfred's pal had dropped his walking cane, now half rested on the conveyor belt and making its way round the track. He looked on, not knowing where he was. All he wanted was a scone, he hadn't asked for this.

The rest of the mob slowly but surely made it over towards Alfred to give him a hand. It was like a scene from Dawn of the Dead. It was a middle-aged businessman on the phone that lifted the bag up for him in the end, and Alfred had to take a little while to recover and get his breath back. Proudly he lifted his wife's bag up on to the trolley and the whole group just stood there trying to figure out where the exit was.

Such events are becoming rarer as this generation's story draws to a close.

The Hol Royd Arms

Don't be fooled by this picture

So, lucky me. Arrived in Surrey, it was a beautiful day and I was in an optimistic mood. All was swell until I arrived at my highly recommended accommodation. A beautiful, cosey little bed and breakfast in the heart of Guildford. Free WiFi, television in room et cetera.

When the taxi driver dropped me off, he did something that I know was difficult for him to do. He cared for the welfare of his passenger. With the engine still running, he hopped out of the red Skoda, jogged to the back of the car, opened the boot, got my suitcase out, opened my door, said: "ten quid mate" gave me his taxi card and said: "look, if you need to leave here, just call this taxi number and ask for Steve. I should be taxiing around this area tonight and I'll be able to pick you up quickly". He drove off in a hurry.


I turned around and started towards the Hol Royd Arms. Sat outside were two fat lads in Red England jerseys from the 90s. I was wearing purple skinny jeans. I was also Scottish...

I need to go buy toothpaste. I will continue later... 


Toppsy


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