I know this is late, the height of Christmas has passed and we are all focusing on the new year, but Christmas is my time of year and the Christmas tree is still up. I STILL have tinsel and scented Christmas decorations in my bed room...from Christmas 2006.
I just really want to have Christmas Special in the title. I apologise in advance for terrible spelling and punctuation. I also apologise in advance for starting so many sentences with "I" and "It's".
I just really want to have Christmas Special in the title. I apologise in advance for terrible spelling and punctuation. I also apologise in advance for starting so many sentences with "I" and "It's".
It's uncertain what really happened, but a logical explanation would be that I was removed from the Corinthian at Hogmanay. I can remember conversing with some of the finest dressed and most powerful people in Glasgow whilst the Drive soundtrack played on repeat from someone's black iPhone 4s 16GB that was connected to the Karaoke machine. I am pretty certain it was the same iPod I used to frape the owner, posting on a girl's timeline something like: "Hey im in Glasgw whre are you?!". The spelling mistakes were accidental and due to my nerves at having this vital 5 second window which I had managed to clamber in, a joyeous expression on my face, my tongue dangling from my mouth's corner, the dibelief that I'd managed to breach security, realising I was getting away with it, realising the spelling mistakes made it seem like he was drunk and thus more authentic. All these thoughts flowing through my incredible mind. In other words, I was in my element participating in pointless meaningless pish on the sidelines whilst everyone else enjoys life.
Then, somehow, I was shirtless and pantless, stumbling and staggering down a nameless lane somewhere near the Clyde River. On the back of my mind a voice suggesting perhaps it'd be best if I just went for a little swim, catch up with some Salmon. Bouncing from wall-to-wall down this nameless lane I picked up momentum. With the winds of Hurricane Bawbag behind me I was picking up speeds at an aggressive pace. Before I knew what was happening I had been ejected out of the lane like a stone ball shot from an Edwardian cannon, it's only purpose to reek havoc and to destroy. To smash-up and decimate. To tear apart and split. Expecting to have a wall to bounce off of again I staggered at an awkward diagonal, but there was no lane wall to cradle me this time. My speed slowed abruptly and I remember desperately trying to maintain balance as I crossed the street dodging cars as they honked their noisy horns and headed toward the brambles and shrubbery opposite.
Then, somehow, I was shirtless and pantless, stumbling and staggering down a nameless lane somewhere near the Clyde River. On the back of my mind a voice suggesting perhaps it'd be best if I just went for a little swim, catch up with some Salmon. Bouncing from wall-to-wall down this nameless lane I picked up momentum. With the winds of Hurricane Bawbag behind me I was picking up speeds at an aggressive pace. Before I knew what was happening I had been ejected out of the lane like a stone ball shot from an Edwardian cannon, it's only purpose to reek havoc and to destroy. To smash-up and decimate. To tear apart and split. Expecting to have a wall to bounce off of again I staggered at an awkward diagonal, but there was no lane wall to cradle me this time. My speed slowed abruptly and I remember desperately trying to maintain balance as I crossed the street dodging cars as they honked their noisy horns and headed toward the brambles and shrubbery opposite.
Reaching for a tree branch I fainted. A leaf fell landing gently on my bosom, turning itself over, as the bells from a distant church rang out for the New Year.
I've still to pick up my muddied white Versace suit from the dry-cleaners.
I've still to pick up my muddied white Versace suit from the dry-cleaners.
I blame George Michael for the fact I am never fully satisfied with life. He has been my inspiration and has set the benchmark for many of my life's aspirations which I have just not really been able to meet yet. But you've got to have faith. When I started to write this shitty post I was in the mood for writing about George Michael in more detail, but like all real things that are close to one's heart they are often hard to talk about. Hard to express and hard to deal with head on. How can I possibly put it into words? To put a long story short, in the eighties George represents a zest for life and being in your prime. The last Christmas Video, Club Tropicana, Careless Whisper....I want to experience it all. It's a Sunday, it's 12:37PM and I'm laying in my cradle. Veridis Quo is communicating with me through my mono loudspeaker. In the background I can here a friend conversing with my flatmate. I am still fully clothed from Bamboo last night minus my socks. Like all socks they are probably now gone forever. This cup of coffee is going down soooo well and through my curtains I can see a teal-blue sky and the occasional hoodlum being evicted from Adele's party flat. It's perhaps foolish of me to give away clues to my current location as the death threats have been more aggressive recently. Gaddafi supporters still believe I was a significant coil in the Arab Spring. They're correct.
In front of me, by my television I have just spotted a miniature sized bottle of Grey Goose that friend brought round last night. It looks so self-contained, lonely and innocent but makes me want to go back to last night. I have a love hate relationship with Sundays. It's a day to enjoy being hungover and lazing about but means that the Weekend is firmly over. I've just now realised that it's important to enjoy your job as I have no feelings of dread for tomorrow morning. In fact, I am looking forward to starting the working week.
On that note I'm going to wash and get something to eat.
Over and Out...
Tappy Jnr
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