...of concern yesterday evening. Power-Trip Owner Twat asked me about my blog. Now, a few days ago, one of the chefs I work with discovered this blog, and identified it as being me. There are certain people who I'd rather not know about this blog. Such as Power-Trip Owner Twat. For fairly obvious reasons. So I asked which one he meant.

PTOT : You know... The cheeky one.
LS (feeling very uncomfortable, and wondering if he's been rumbled) : 'Cheeky one' ? They're all 'cheeky'.
PTOT : How many do you have ?
LS (evading question) : Do you mean [name of blog suppressed on advice of LemonSquash's lawyers] ?
PTOT : That's the one.
LS (relieved) : How did you know about that ? Have you been reading it ?
PTOT : No, I was bluffing. I just wanted to know.
LS (bluffing) : Maybe you should...

That was too close for comfort. So I've deleted the links to this one from my other ones. Which means my 'frequency in favourite blogs' will probably drop to about four. Hey ho. Needs must.

...The Lust-In™ is featured in the Top Blogs List, thanks to the sublime Heather. Considering I'm being showcased, she suggested I write something interesting for a change. So I'm not going to tell you about the Newest Object Of My Affection, the funeral I had to go to, my new shoes, or the fact that my flatmate has bought the Star Wars boxed-set. Or that I drank some cider for the first time since being sixteen, and quite enjoyed it. And don't even ask about any of these things, as I won't tell.

Instead, I am going to give you a snippet from a conversation I had with my old flatmate over the phone. When I asked her what she'd been up to, she told me "I've been horseriding on the beach today; so, in both the American sense *and* the British sense, I have a sore fanny". I hereby crown her Queen Of Articulation.

*NB : This entry could be construed as a childish attempt to put off all one of my new readers by using the word 'fanny' unnecessarily. Which would be a correct interpretation.

...for a new job today. What shall I be ? Where shall I go ?

My one condition is that it needs to be in a place where I can blog freely.

...amusing jape.

Approach the first taxi in a line of (say) ten cabs and ask: "How much to the airport [or where you will] ?"

Receive reply (perhaps): "Fifteen quid, mate."

Then enquire: "And how much for a blow job on the way ?"

Get told (probably): "Fuck off you dirty bastard, or I'll give you a slap, you fucking bender."

Move on to next taxi in the rank and ask, "How much to the airport ?"

"Fifteen quid, mate."

"And how much for a blow job on the way ?"

And so on, moving down the line until you reach the last cab. "How much to the airport?"

"Fifteen quid, mate."

"Ok."

Get into taxi and make thumbs-up gestures at the other cabbies in the line as you drive past them.

...that have happened to me in the last few days...

I pick up a hitch-hiker. I am playing 'Hells Bells' :

LS : I hope you like AC/DC.
HH : Not really. If you like your cheesy old rock, you should really listen to Iron Maiden.

Now, a younger LemonSquash - a Lemon prepared to fight for his principles - might have opened the passenger door and hoofed said passenger out at this point, without bothering to slow down first. But the poor misguided little shitstick was only 19 years old, and I was also young and impetuous once; so with Jedi Master calm I informed him that, by the time he reached my age, he would have realised the error of his ways. So the young Padawan was dropped off not only at his home town, but at the beginning of the path to enlightenment. Two good deeds for the price of one.

That evening, I drank wine with my family. 'Flash Gordon' happened to be on TV. It got to the bit when Peter Duncan is about to be initiated with the Woodbeast. Quoth my father (The Walrus) : "Oh, this is the bit where they have to put their willies in that plant, innit ?" How very random.

I have been e-communicating with Nooma. I asked her wot her favourite Madonna song was. She replied :
My favoutite Madonna song is 'Like a verger'. But I also like 'Stigmaterial girl'.
Now, although this was very amusing indeed (for those who don't know what the fudge I'm talking about here, this should offer clarity), it was also slightly worrying. I couldn't remember having spoken to Nooma about the 'Bible songs', and wondered whether or not she'd read it on this blog. In which case, she'd have found it. In which case, she might well be reading these words. In which case, er... Hi Nooma. Please don't hurt me for liking you. I couldn't help it. It just happened.

...the whole 'time running out' thing come from again ?

So I sat down to put off having to update my CV, and write a covering note for the next job application, by formulating a Blog Crush entry for Beso so crushing that any males unlucky enough to happen across it would attempt to reconfigure their own DNA-coding using an EduScience MicroChemistry Set, a turtle, and some baking soda. And possibly also a scalpel and rogue vagina.

So I sat poised and blog-primed. And then :

'Knock'

and then

'Knock knock'

So I elected to answer the door. And there stood Nooma.

"Sorry this is short notice, but would you like to come to the pub ?"

"Well... Just let me put some Hydrogen Peroxide on my toe (whole other story), grab my shoes, put the rabbit away, and I'll be there."

It had entirely escaped me that we only had another fortnight to make the most of each other. So we swore that we would spend as much time as possible together over the next two weeks. She would have to prove that her room was - indeed - messier than mine (that *must* be license), that her work togs are truly the ugliest in the universe, and that...

that...

When we're together, everything else plays second fiddle. Maybe not even fiddle. Second kazoo ?

My next fortnight is booked almost entirely solid. I didn't realise that this was gonna come about so quickly.

Not that that's important. She is, after all, someone else's girlf....

I re-incurred a recurring injury to my toe yesterday. I think I may have done something to piss the universe off.

...my job. Moreover, I hate my boss.

I'm feeling reckless. Shall I get myself fired today ?

...shaky and headachey. This is because I had a super-fun happy day of delight yesterday. I fell out of bed at midday, and went to a pub for pie and ale with my flatmate and Nooma. These are pretty much the ingredients for a perfect day. Nooma is consistently hilarious. These are some of the things we talked about :

- Is living in an old-folks home like living in a student halls of residence ? You'd be living in close proximity with a load of folk of the same age; and, although we didn't know whether or not there'd be a lot of sex, there'd certainly be a lot of drugs. This question was prompted by a bus-load of seniors pouring into the pub. This conversation then degenerated into how hilarious octogenarian wrestling would be, and Nooma speculated that they would have to ascend to the ring in a Stannah Stair-Lift.

- Nooma told us about a half-hour conversation she'd had the evening before with a stultifyingly ill-informed Welsh nationalist, that had amused her a lot. Amongst his reasons for hating the English, he cited the potato famine, that well-known Welsh disaster. To prove that he wasn't alone in his zeal, he accosted a few randoms, and had the following dialogue, several times over :
"Are you proud to be Welsh ?"
"Yes, I am."
"Would you die for your country ?"
"Er... Probably not."
In conclusion, Welsh Nationalist told Nooma that - if it came to it - as an English person, he could kill her if he had to. Although she still had a great arse.

- On the drive home (Nooma is a comically terrible driver), we spoke almost exclusively about merkins. Nooma was conceptually intrigued by this, as she'd never heard of a merkin before. I told her about how I'd sent an email to Lassie dot net inquiring as to whether the 'actors' used to play Lassie had been fitted with one, on account of Lassie being a female. The response was alarmingly prompt, and read 'No, they have a large thick coat and it isn't necessary'. I like that Nooma finds merkins funny.

- She has seen a man that has 'Swag' tattooed on his scrotum. And that is true.

My flatmate and I continued to get drunk in The Ship Of Fools (where I work) after Nooma left. My flatmate observed that the chemistry between Nooma and myself is very obvious indeed, and that she had no idea why she is still with poseur boyfriend. However, her and poseur boyfriend are going travelling around the world for six months; and are leaving very soon indeed. It will probably prove to be make or break. Fingers crossed for break...

...applying for jobs. And packing up my room (I'm moving house soon). But, instead, I am going to spend all day blogging, and drinking coffee. The trouble is, I don't really have anything to blog about at the moment. I had to clean up barf for the first time at work yesterday, but I don't really want to talk about that. So, instead, I'm going to tell you what Winamp has spat out at me so far this morning :

- 'Letter From America' by The Proclaimers. I love the Proclaimers.

- 'Hot For Teacher' by Van Halen. Dedicated to Beso, this one.

- 'Your Mother's Got A Penis' by GLC. I like that this and Dirty Sanchez are Newport's contribution to world culture.

- 'My Hope The Destroyer' by My Dying Bride. I saw these doomy chaps once, many moons ago. As they were supported by GGFH (Global Genocide Forget Heaven - no... really), who were a sort of techno-death band, a lot of ravers turned up having popped Es and trips, expecting electronica. They were treated to freaky slideshows featuring lots of death and mutilation, and the darkest music you have ever heard. Fun. It was worth it for the girls who stayed on to boogie frantically to MDB, who churned about about two chords a minute. Very heavy, and hence brill.

- 'It Started With A Kiss' by Hot Chocolate. 'How could I resist the aroma of your perfume ?' crooned Errol. Isn't that a bit advanced for an eight-year-old ?

- 'Shaft' by Isaac Hayes. Damn straight.

I might go for a surf this morning. So a freezing, watery grave for me, then.

...a couple of nights ago. One of the local oddbods was slightly pickled at the end of the bar. Now, this chap is probably in his fifties, and may or may not have attempted to murder his wife by cutting her brake cables (unsurprisingly, she left him immediately afterwards - or so I'm told). Also, he is prime suspect for having been rifling through my flatmates' (both girls) bins. Slightly unsavoury, non ?

Anyway, he was sat at the end of the bar, and talking to me. One of the disadvantages of being a stout yeoman is that people *will* talk to you, if you want them to or not. So this chap started having a rant about the fact that he'd seen Nooma with her boyfriend in a pub in town. He clearly is not a big fan of her bloke.

Unseemly Attempted-Murder Man : I don't know what she fucking sees in him. He's a fucking twat.
LS : I don't mind him, see. He's alright.

...I thought it best to be diplomatic. I don't want to seem to have too much in common with Unseemly Attempted-Murder Man, after all.

UAMM : Whatever... he's not good enough for [Nooma]. [Pause]. I used to be in love with [Nooma], you know...
LS : Aw. That's sweet.
UAMM : I used to live in the house opposite hers. I used to watch her out of my window when she came home from school. I loved those schoolgirls. Especially [Nooma]...

Ok, so... Ew. At this point, myself and another customer exchanged uncomfortable glances, and then I left to do something else.

So, to recap... Ew.

...ever been to a murder party ? I'm going to one tonight. It's supposed to be set in Kloisters (so I should probably consult our Heather), and I'm playing a character called Jaques Frost. Yuck. I am going to be wearing fake tan, and have picked up a silk cravat and a most fetching diamond-patterned jumper from charity shops in town this morning.

The people hosting the party are both very earnest. Rather than sticking to the script, and making accusations based on the plot, I might make accusations pertaining to real life. Like "I accuse this party of being shit. Let's go to the pub". It could be fun. It might well suck. Remains to be seen.

Not human remains, obviously. That would be taking the concept a bit far.

...calling me in for a job interview on Monday morning. The job is for newsrooom / picture desk assistant at a local rag. It would be a shit of a lot better than working in The Ship Of Fools.

Editor : We will get you to scan, download and edit some images. Would that be ok ?

LS : No problem.

Editor : And can you bring in some of your photographic work.

LS : Er... sure.

Photographic work ?

Neep.

...that there seems to be a rush to submit as many blogs as possible on a Friday before close-of-play. And I'm keen to jump on that bandwagon. So I'll tell you about a conversation that I had with a fourteen-year old (who looks much younger) I work with a few days ago. His nickname is Question, as he constantly asks questions (sorry if that's a bit cryptic) :

Question : I almost got arrested last night, [Squish].
LS : Oh really ? Why ?
Question : Blowing stuff up.
LS : Cool. What were you blowing up ?
Question : Oh, anything. Whatever.
LS : So how did you get caught ?
Question : We were in a field near town, and we put a firecracker in a puddle of mud. We didn't know there was a copper watching us. When it went off, the explosion was massive, and stuff went everywhere. Then he got us in his car, and wanted to arrest us. He radioed the police station, and they said he couldn't, as we're only fourteen. So he had to let us go.
LS : Presumably they're gonna tell your parents ?
Question : Yep. I've told my mum already. She doesn't care, really. She just said it's all part of growing up.
[Pause]
Question : It's a good thing he didn't find the bottle of Jack Daniels in my pocket.

...an otherwise hellish ten and a half hour shift, Nooma came into The Ship Of Fools with some mates. She was hyperactive on account of having drunk too much coke, and became overly excited when I offered her the chance to come behind the bar with me and pull pints. This was the highlight of my working day.

After my shift, I went home and flopped. Nooma phoned shortly afterwards, to invite us out for drinks. I considered joining her, but then decided that I was too pooped. And anyway, I had this presentation of my 'photographic work' to prepare. When Surf-Film-Maker Chap returned after time was called, he told me that Nooma had been "very upset" that I hadn't been there. So I texted her this :

Hello. Sorry I didn't show up. Still busy preparing portfolio. You were upset that I wasn't there. Therefore you think I'm great, and are hence gay xx

Her reply :

I was not 'upset', as you claim. I simply think that you are a mother fucking candy ass. Good luck for your interview, butt nugget!

I love those sweet nothings.

Shit... job interview. I hope they don't ask me any questions. What are the chances ?

...that I should have used the expression "nerd pod" in my job interview. It just popped out.

They loved the photos, though. Suckers.

P.S. Go here for a bit of a chortle.