June 20th 2004 - June 27th 2004
Sunday Eh?
Saturday Unfortunate
Friday So over
Thursday Wayne
Wednesday Blendo
Tuesday Dibble
Monday Work it
Sunday 27th June 2004
Overheard outside Comptons
A: Ah, but Sleep is Death's brother, is he not?
Also overheard outside Comptons
A: Looks really aren't important to me: my last boyfriend had a double mastectomy and a pot belly.
Saturday 26th June 2004
You might want to rephrase that...
Jody, an enthusiastic gymnast and dancer, had just stepped off a bus before she was hit by the car.
Friday 25th June 2004
Put away those flags. Tear down that bunting. (And if you expect me to get excited about Tim Henman, think again.)
Thursday 24th June 2004
Four or five things I know about Wayne Rooney
He is the first English hero called Wayne
He looks likes Alfred E Neumann
However good he is, or however young, there is no excuse for sports-writing that includes phrases such as "The fire within the man-child..." or "This teenaged force of nature".
(But I did quite like the moment when the commentator cried, "Wayne Rooney there, definitely the man of the match." paused, and then mumbled, "Only of course he's not a man yet...")
Unlike Beckham, he does not have a voice like a dog's rubber bone.
For an 18 year old, he appears to have an improbable amount of chest hair, and an unfeasibly large.. house.
Wednesday 23rd June 2004
My creative dyslexia's been kicking in again: I read the headline Blunder causes baby mix-up with an 'e' instead of a 'u', thus putting, uh, a different spin on the story.
Tuesday 22nd June 2004
I know what it means; I know what it ought to mean
Dibble: - what the right hand does whilst the left hand's busy fomenting the front.
Monday 21st June 2004
Imagine the scene:
It is well understood at work that you don't do Sundays. You don't even check the rota to make sure you have Sunday off because Sundays are sacrosanct. Because Sunday means the RVT. Ok, so you're a little over the RVT these days ("Momma don' queue"). But you still find plenty of options to engage your active interest on this day of rest: the Man Bar, the LA3, that new thing up West that sounds quite promising, Horse Meat Disco once a month. Sundays continue to be the new Saturday. Sundays are freeeee.
And Sunday dawns, without so much as a hangover because you worked last night and then settled for a mere couple of pints at the Swan afterwards (where you were pretty sure you spotted Lee McQueen and, indeed, re-introduced yourself only he wasn't really in what you'd call a talking mood so you stayed unsure that it was him until the DJ played, ha ha, Vogue and the people he was with started throwing shapes to die for and then, then, you were pretty sure it was him) and now you have a whole day's pleasure yawning ahead of you.
And whilst, God forbid, you didn't actually make a date with the Frenchman you fell for on Friday night, you did sorta mention that the grassy knoll was a kinda cool place to be on a Sunday. So your second visit to Vauxhall in as many weeks looks somewhat pre-ordained. Plus: you're awake, if not actually out of bed, with plenty of time to make it all the way across town in time to beat the queues and spend an hour or two lolling about whilst keeping a careful eye cocked for errant Frenchmen.
But, ah, it's raining.But, aha, there is also MeMeMe at South Central today. So you can count on the rain to cut down the queue, scrub the knoll, chance a somewhat later arrival, hope to see certain people at the RVT but, failing that, settle for several hours of liquid refreshment a little further down Kennington Lane.
And, lo, come four o'clock you're strolling straight through the door at the RVT without a care in the world, except the very minor decision as to whether to hand your phone in with your jacket and, what with one thing and another, you decide to hang on to it. And you're ordering your first pint, and turning to survey the crowd, and there's David, and Roberto, and Gian-Luca and they're introducing you to various other friends, and friends of friends and so forth. Hello, hello, how do you do?
And a friend's friend's friend, who thinks you won't hear him, leans over to your friend and asks What was you friend's name? and you lean in and smile and say Gerald! and he laughs and says Well, you still have very good hearing! and you think to yourself: "Still?" but laugh anyway.
And someone hands a second pint through to the relatively jostle-free niche in which you've thoughtfully established yourself, surrounded by the not-unattractive, some of whom are snogging, and you're taking in the view over the busy dance floor where you can see, oh look, Luca and Stuart and, oh look, Dave and Kelvin and, oh well, no Frenchmen. And there's that guy who.. And the one who... And he looks as if he might... And, huzzah, the show's starting.
And the show's pretty damn good actually, with some great songs, and a lot of jokes that you won't remember, and a pastiche of Bette Davies' Eyes that references David Blunkett in a most unflattering fashion and everybody sings along and then it's over and you get your third pint in and take yourself for a swan round the dancefloor, and a bit of a bop, but nothing above the shoulder, and you've undone your shirt and then, as always, slightly against your better judgement, you've taken your shirt off and time passes and you're looking forward to a time when you'll begin to consider moving down the road to South Central and you take out your phone to check the time and you have ONE MESSAGE RECIEVED.
So you go outside where you stand at least some chance of hearing the retrieved message. And it says, "Ah, Ian, it's, ah, Tom; I just wondered if you, ah, knew you were supposed to be working a long shift tonight. Um. Speak to you soon. Hopefully."
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