Monday, March 28, 2005

Hasta la Easter, Baby

Hello again, my huckleberry friends. I trust you all had an enjoyable break and managed to eat your own body weight in chocolate.

A rather uneventful easter this year, so perhaps not the most thrilling update ever this time.

Thursday, I popped into the office at work for the much anticipated Egg Decorating Contest. My entry, a dyed-yellow egg with long hair and thick glasses drawn on in marker pen, wittily entitled Yolko Ono, came last. In fairness, it was shit. A rather impressionistic version of Mother Nature's bumble bee scooped the title. However, all entrants were rewarded with chocolate mini eggs, so it's not all bad.

Thursday night meant cold drinks in sunny Blyth. A strange night was had by all. One bar, The Beach, had barmaids in bikini tops but no customers. The next pub had a "ladies night" in the back room. Apparently a lady likes nothing better than to see four male strippers and a drag act comedian when on a night out. The ladies of Blyth were knocking back the blissful hippocrene like there was no tomorrow, or at least no work tomorrow. A gaggle of older women seemed to be living for pleasure alone, cheerfully informing us that "big willies aren't that important, as long as you can use your tongue well". Which is good to know. Suitably reassured, we made our excuses and left.

Good Friday, stayed in and attempted to become one with the cosmos, grow a honey coloured beard and play some fairly wistful harmonica.

Saturday, and a trip to Newcastle's bustling city centre. The Goose public house contained some of the strangest, most grotesque looking males and females ever gathered together in one place. Cheap ale, though. The night wound up at Grey's nightclub, or Jurassic Park as some locals call it. As we entered the fray a Boney M megamix was booming out from the wheels of steel and hard-faced harridans were giving it laldy out on the floor. Most of the blokes looked like they would probably list headbutting as one of their hobbies. The ladies sported bingo wings, big tattoos and more jewellery than Mr T and Jimmy Saville put together. No place for a man of culture and refinement such as myself. So, a taxi ride home to the strains of The Stranglers it was.

If you have tuned in purely for a vicarious thrill at my boot-knocking, bin-emptying lifestyle you are in for a disappointment. I am living a chaste existence these days, preferring instead to commune with the earth spirits and attain inner peace. Anybody bandying the words "couldn't", "score" and "knocking shop" about would be severely missing the point.

Easter Sunday began rather late. In addition to the clocks going forward, I had a king-sized hangover which didn't subside till about five o'clock. So naturally six o'clock saw me making my way to the local for a pick-me-up. It turned out it was one of the regulars' birthday and the entire place had been mopping it up good style all day. The place resembled one of the bawdy taverns you used to get in Hammer horror films. There was pogoing, headbanging, communal singing, jiving, climbing on the furniture, kicking of one's height, cha cha sliding, electric boogaloo, all manner of mayhem going on. It was fucking great. I drank till it bubbled out my eyes, kicked with the fray and had a rare old time.

Here's to Easter, your my best fuggin' mate, you are.

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