Monday, March 19, 2007

Beer Tricks Patter

Oy oy, saveloy! Welcome back, boys and girls, to the 'blog that everyone is calling "essentially a four year long cry for help".

I joke of course. This fine journal is proof positive that the exciting world of the online diary isn't solely the preserve of the spod, the weirdo and the spinny-eyed looney. None of these charges could be levelled at your Colonel, I'm confident you will agree.

To bidness. First up, a cautionary tale. Sunday evening in a local saloon bar I felt it was time for a bit of an old party trick. The amazing feat that is Balancing A Bottle Of Stella Artois Atop One's Head.

Take a second and think about that. Imagine, a fat chap with a bottle of beer perched on his head, hands out to one side. A wondrous spectacle and no mistaking. Just the thing to give one's fellow revellers who are grimly drinking with both hands, trying to wring the last few drops of hedonism from the dying embers of the weekend.
Which, as anyone who has attempted to obtain liquid from embers would attest, is quite a big ask. Not the greatest metaphor, that one.

Anyhoo, while you're probably ahead of me here, I must confess that the stunt didn't go as planned. Possibly the bottle was defective, maybe my head is getting lumpy, but the balancing didn't really happen. The bottle crashed to earth, beer went everywhere and the assembled barflies, including at least two women, found the thing dashed amusing.

Far from being lauded and admired for my barroom acrobatics, I had ended up as a laughing stock, a putz, a worse than senseless thing.

I only hope that you will learn from my tale of hubris laid low and resolve not to be, as one observer pointed out, "such a fucking cock". At least then some good can come from this sorry episode.

A trip to Newcastle's busy town centre on Saint Patrick's day had earlier provided some happier moments. A night spent knocking back Guinness, Jagermeister and Tequila (in separate glasses) wound up with some ultimately futile attempts at seduction in the voguish Indie nightclub Bulletproof.
At this point one of my associates mentioned that a young lady with whom he'd been having an on-off, unconsumated relationship had been text messaging him informing him that she would be well up for boot-knockage/hide the sausage on Monday and possibly Tuesday evening, should he care to pop round.

A nice bit of boxed fruit, you might think. You would normally be quite correct, if not for the fact that my young friend, having been unwisely advised by someone who shall remain nameless, then texted the lady back with the question "Can I smash your back end in?"

Scarcely the language of Romeo or Galahad, what? I fear his dance card may remain unfilled for Monday and Tuesday night.
Until we next meet, I hope that your head is flat and smooth and that you get to smash in all the back ends your heart desires.

Increase the peace, beeyatches!

Sunday, March 11, 2007

I believe I can lie

R Kelly - Wings conspicuously absent.

Hola, muchachos! ¿Cómo estás?

For the uninitiated among you, I am enquiring as to your wellbeing in the language of the Spaniard. You live and you learn, what?

Anyhoo, putting aside such multi-lingual tomfoolery for the momen I will get down to brass tacks and let you know what is currently getting my goat.

R Kelly is a lying bastard.

There, I've said it. I am referring, not to his ongoing legal trials and tribulations relating to his alleged penchant for underaged girls. This journal does not intend having it's arse sued off by R's voraciously litigious legal team as a result of unjustifiable smears regarding his purported puppysqueezing predilection. The man must be presumed innocent until proven guilty and I hope that he can clear his name.

No, my charge of untruthfulness stems from his 1996 chart smash "I believe I can fly, me". We all know it, we all cringe at it's overblown vocal gymnastics and the absolute nonsense being peddled in the lyrics.

I believe I can fly? You believe that do you? Well, go on then, fly. Why tell us you believe you can fly? Why not simply state "I can fly, me. It's easy" and then give us a brief demonstration of unaided aeronautics? Is it because you're talking out your arse?

The man's a fool.

It doesn't stop there, either. Having told us "I believe I can fly. I believe I can touch the sky" which we have plainly demonstrated to be Tom Rot, he further claims "I think about it every day. Spread my wings and fly away".

Wings, sir? Show me these feathery appendages. I demand to see your wings.

In a chimp's cock! He's got no fucking wings. Sir Alf Ramsey's 1966 "Wingless Wonders" had more wings than R Kelly.

Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I put it to you that R Kelly cannot actually fly, his claim of having spreadable wings is spurious and furthermore, he is a nonce.

Oops! Ignore that last bit.

See you soon, playmates. I'm off to prepare for my slander trial and to put the finishing touches to my forthcoming single "I believe I can shite diamonds out my arse".