What ho, folks, look who's back in the motherlovin' house with a fat stick for your motherlovin' mouth. I trust you are all jogging along nicely. Anyhow, small talk and pleasantries aside, let's get down to it.
This journal (or 'blog) is a kind of quest for truth, if you will. A sort of voyage into new and unknown experiences, sensations and insights. Ever-changing, constantly reaching out for fresh, inspiring challenges. That type of thing.
That said, I am going to blether on about getting drunk in Whitley Bay again. Plus ca change...
A bank holiday weekend is a fine thing indeed. Combine this with a sunday soccer game featuring local underachievers Newcastle United and a nerve-shredding cricket test match for the Ashes and you have a recipe for extreme drunken radgeyosity.
Sunday included disco dancing to The Rubettes, shouting on and far too many cold drinks, but this was a mere preamble to the Monday madness. A group of eight men strong and true set out from a pub called The Monkey. We made Whitley Bay by half one in the afternoon. The streets were packed with thirsty revellers, hard-drinking nonsense-spouting geordie blokes and beautiful painted hussies overflowing from their skimpy clothing, all intent on getting as drunk as ninety-nine pirates and rutting in bus shelters.
Truly, that is what it's aal aboot.
The day wore on, lagers and vodka redbulls were downed, the volume was turned up, the party began to swing and a rather unusual transformation took place. Normally, I cut a rather severe figure. A reserved, restrained, refined man about town you would say, if you bumped into me. However, mellowed and emboldened by a bellyful of booze I became a sort of cross between a holiday rep and a North American Senator working the crowd at an election rally. No female was immune from my shop-soiled, greasy attentions. No hand went unshaken, no ear went unbent by my inane small-talk, no bevy of beauties was neglected in my course of cracking on to every available girl in town.
All in vain of course, but the chase is the thing not the kill, much like foxhunting, I believe.
After a while I noticed I had become isolated from my friends. An easy thing to happen of course, wires get crossed, plans "gan agley" and people do get lost. I am quite sure that at no point did anyone suggest that "we dump the Colonel, he's scaring the lasses away with his drunken boobie-babble".
Now drinking heavily and talking drivel to ladies is clearly A Good Thing but it isn't all gravy, if you catch my drift? No, then I will continue snowing. If I could have my time over again I would possibly take back some of the things I said and did. In particular, the exchange I had with a girl who has just started at my workplace leaves a lot to be desired.
Self: Are you single, by any chance?
Girl: (Raising hand to show diamond ring) No, I'm engaged.
S: He's a lucky man. You're a very beautiful woman.
S: It's the tits, principally.
I know, the shame of it. Still, you live and learn, eh?
While you're here, I'd just like to say a few moments regarding the excellence of the American rapper Snoop Dogg (nee Doggy Dogg). He really is a tremendous fellow, isn't he? With his bitches and hoes and his chronic and shiznits and what-have-yous. His debut album "Doggy Style" is a pip and a dandy. Whether it be his repositioning of Gin and Orange as a hip and dudey drink for the man about the ghetto rather than something your nan would sip on after bingo or his fictional W-Ballz radio station there is always something new with every listen. Top swearing, cartoon misogyny and lowbrow swearing, boasting and exaggerated stories of sexual shenanigans, there's something for everyone.
In fairness to the lad, his subsequent releases never really hit the heights of Doggy Style, but his latest release seems to be a welcome return to form. The subtle, slightly risque humour of "Let's get blown", the fact that the collaboration with irritating pop chimp Justin Timberlake features a bloke called Uncle Charlie, these are all fantastic but the album's crowning glory is "Drop it like it's hot". Over a curious backbeat of glottal mouth noises and drums the Doggmeister puts down some of his best lyrics in years.
Early on he informs us that "I keep a blue flag hanging out my backsideBut only on the left side, yeah that's the Crip side" which is a thing I never knew. Who'd have thought that those tough American street gangs had an official buttock side for hanging flags out of?
The Snoopster goes on to tell us "I got a living room full of fine dime brizzles". Now I have not the faintest inkling what a dime brizzle is but I wish I had a living room full of them. I merely have a living room full of unironed shirts. However, it isn't all rosy for the Snoopatollah. Yes, he is all dime brizzled up, but he is "Waiting on the Pizzle, the Dizzle and the Shizzle". I ask you. Isn't that always the way. The Pizzle and the Dizzle turn up, all fine and good, no problem there but wait up, where's the Shizzle? Turns out there's been a delay and the Shizzle won't be there till later. Bloody typical. There's always a fly in the ointment, even if your name is S-N double-O P.
Having thought about it I reckon a dime brizzle is a sort of dorty lass, probably with big knockers. Snoop, you're a lucky cove.