http://20six.co.uk/lemonsquash
powered by
20six.co.uk
|
|
It was a fairly
...interesting weekend, so I might tell you about it. Right here. Now. As Claire Rayner might say, let's press on :
- I went to a party on Friday night; I didn't get laid, I got in a fight... Uh-huh - it ain't no big thing. Actually, the getting in a fight part of that statement wasn't true. But someone did get in a fight though, and got arrested. As retribution for this, his stupid motherfucker of a brother set fire to a local fisherman's boat. Now, this was viewed as a surfers' party; and there is enough ill-feeling between surfers and fishermen without cunts who can't take their drink exacerbating the situation. Hopefully this won't start an eye-for-an-eye scenario, but I'm not sure. Also, it will probably mean that the village hall will be less likely to host parties. As ever, it's always a small minority who spoil it for everyone else.
- I spent most of Saturday taking photos at a local carnival, and took as many pictures of the local cone-headed mutants as I did actual pictures for the paper. There was one rather exceptional corpulent woman with red arms, and a face like a slapped arse, dressed as a bumble-bee. I think she probably cottoned-on to my mischievous plot, as every time she looked around my camera was pointed straight at her. I am a bad person.
- Myself and the Head Reporter had a drink in the AFC club building at the carnival ground. It was the most depressing place in the world. There were plastic floral couches, raspberry milk pink and lime green decor, old dusty ceiling fans, everything was tabacco stained (including the clientele), and they were proudly blasting out The Jovi. We contemplated how we were only there because we were being paid, but the place had people that would come for their nights out there every weekend; if not every night. Then the Head Reporter pointed out that some people probably held their wedding receptions there. At that moment, I felt a little part of my soul leave.
- I went for a curry on Saturday night with a group of people that included a pregnant lady and her eight-year-old girl. The girl had a mouth almost as filthy as mine, told a prostitute joke, and sang her repertoire of Elvis songs. Now this never normally happens, but she was such a fabulous kid that I became a bit broody. Yikes. Don't tell anyone.
- I went later to a bar I'd never been to before, which had a Polish barmaid that looked exactly like Scarlett Johannson (as soon as I saw her, I turned into a fawny dollop of melty love), and was being visited by about forty Hell's Angels. I went up and asked one of them what the tattoo all over his head meant, we got chatting, and it turns out that he knew my tattooist from Auckland. Micro-globe. About ten minutes later, he and a mate were approached by an absolutely massive ex-SAS nasty piece of work that I know from The Ship Of Fools. He spoke to them for about thirty seconds, until they beat him prostrate in a series of about five punches that can't have taken more than three seconds. This was fairly remarkable from a pair who were about half his size. There was already a slightly intimidated tension by virtue of the place being full of Hell's Angels, and this didn't aid the cause, although I suspect that massive SAS cunt almost certainly deserved it. He got up after a couple of minutes, and started to look for company. As he knows me by name, and I didn't want to seem to be buddying up to him in front of a massive angry biker contingent, I decided to go and hide under a table outside.
- There was smurfing to be had. Of course.
- I had a (slightly drunken) text from the Sweet Ecologist, asking if I was ignoring her on Saturday night. I wasn't - I just hadn't replied to an earlier text very hastily, on account of having a busy day. My response was 'Who is this ?'. I am a bad boyfriend. Although Nooma told me of a girl she'd met who'd had her nose cut off with a knife by her boyfriend; and judging by those standards, I shouldn't be too concerned. Fortunately my teasing was taken in the spirit intended, and not as a declaration of war; so I am still in a relationship. Albeit by the skin of my nose, I expect.
There is probably more to tell, but I'm off for lunch.
|
4.7.05 14:16
|
|
The Editor, pondering
...a headline :
Editor : Do you think Woman In Abduction Ordeal, or Snatch Ordeal ?
[Lemonsquash sniggers]
Lemonsquash : Abduction Ordeal. Definitely Abduction.
Missed a trick there.
|
5.7.05 13:00
|
|
Hello, and welcome to
...Relationship Blog. This week, I shall be making the following entries :
- a thousand words of capering prose, detailing how happy my ladyfriend and I are that we have each other;
- a sonnet describing the parts of my soul that ignite when I gaze into her eyes;
- an exhaustive list of potential children's names;
- digitised works I have recently painted, entitled 'Paradise Found', 'Fuzzy Love', 'Cherished Angel', and 'Fountaining Jubilance';
- links to mp3s of myself and my lady calling each other our respective pet names in baby voices;
- picking my much-beloved fellow-20Sixers' collective brains over where I should be buying a dazzling finger accessory.
All the while my adulating readership can bask in the putrescent glory radiated from my perfect and gratifying newfound kinship, and gather extra delight from the knowledge that it's only going to get better and better, merrier and mushier.
|
6.7.05 13:26
|
|
I would like to know
...who it was that claimed I'm beautiful, please. Although I suspect that you're delusional (and you certainly wouldn't find me beautiful with wot I have on my upper lip at the moment) there's a good chance I love you back. Unless you're the Carlisle Cock. Which I suspect you're not. So step forward xx
|
6.7.05 16:35
|
|
Yesterday evening I made
...a three bean and button mushroom salad, for gradual munching over the weekend. There's quite a lot of it, and I estimate it will produce at least a hundred farts. I'm supposed to be seeing the Sweet Ecologist this evening. I hope she doesn't mind taking a trip to Trumpton. Ha - you all knew I couldn't go a few sentences before this degenerated into Relationship Blog again. And you were right.
Quite aside from this, what games do you think could be improved by combining them with other games ? For example, Twistopoly ("Right hand Mayfair... Left foot Old Kent Road..."). Or Jenga with golf clubs (probably tricky to see a game right through). Suggest, my pretties.
|
8.7.05 12:48
|
|
I'm a bit busy for
...a whole weekend bulletin at the moment; so I'll just give you a couple of random conversational snippets :
Surf-Film-Maker Chap : This week, shall we become captains of industry ?
Lemonsquash : Yes.
...And later that day :
Surf-Film-Maker Chap : Shall I buy myself a pair of Speedos ?
Lemonsquash : Yes.
|
11.7.05 11:23
|
|
So I had a superfab
...weekend, liberally peppered with brillness. Here is just a small selection of the many highlights :
- Walking up and down beaches in the glorious sunshine.
- Going diving for crabs (no sniggering, please). I was very proud to have caught my first spider crab, and held it aloft above the surface of the water. My hand wasn't as far to the back of the crab's head as it should've been, and the feisty little rascal tightened its legs around my hand and started pinching at my fingers. At this point I jettisoned my (very) temporary captive about twenty feet, complete with traditional "Arrgh - you little fucker" battle-cry. About twenty minutes later, I got The Fear after swimming over a cluster of about thirty plus crabs, which looked at first glance to be a beast about four foot in diameter. Whilst taking evasive action, I swam face-first into a jelly fish. Scary minute.
- Going fishing for mackerel. Myself and Surf-Film-Maker Chap were a little less well equipped than last time (one of the lines snapped after about five minutes), but we made up for this by having remembered to bring a vat of cider. And any fans of fishies will be pleased to hear that we let as many tiddlers go as we did mercilessly slaughter and barbecue the big, meaty ones.
- I went to see a philharmonic orchestra at an outdoor proms. Complete with picnic and rosé. Woo. I saw Nooma and her (*spit*) bloke there, both of whom were brandishing Union Jacks. I asked why they didn't have Welsh flags. Nooma replied that she considered herself to be British, and her bloke couldn't find a St George's Cross. I was then asked why I had no flag at all, and countered that I'd accidentally left my Al-Qaeda flag at home. This tasteless joke backfired about half an hour later, when I accosted a man with his daughter on his shoulders, and requested that I take a picture for The Rag. He asked me if I had any proof of who I said I was, and I had to concede that I didn't. But I figured that a third-party verification would suffice, so I called over to Nooma - who was standing in the next group - "[Nooma] - who do I work for ?" To which she responded "Al-Qaeda". Oops.
- Later that night, Surf-Film-Maker Chap wanted to get into my house (read : The Odd Couple's house), but I wouldn't answer the door as I'd passed out. So he shimmied up a drainpipe, and broke in through my (rather small) bedroom window, taking out my blinds (read : The Odd Couple's blinds) in the process. He then shouted at my head in a fruitless effort to wake me up. He then went downstairs, made himself a sandwich, and fell asleep half-naked in front of the TV. This wasn't a sight that a couple visiting The Odd Couple, who returned to their temporary digs later that night, were expecting. Rather than 'fess up that he'd broken into the house, he told The Odd Couple that I'd let him in. I remained oblivious to all this until sometime the following morning.
- Barbecues and cider on the beach.
- Bare flesh. Summer rocks though, doesn't it ?
More soon motherfuckers x
|
11.7.05 14:01
|
|
Here's a third-hand
...anecdote that I heard this afternoon (although I believe it to be true) about a local solicitor :
Solicitor and Solicitor's Wife are in a kebab shop, waiting for their dinner. Little Townie Bastard approaches. Little Townie Bastard asks the Wife if she has change of a fiver. She does. Little Townie Bastard puts a bluey on the counter, and Wife places five pound coins on the counter too. Little Townie Bastard goes to take both the coins and the note, but is stopped by Solicitor.
Solicitor : What do you think you're doing ?
Townie : I gave her a tenner.
Solicitor : No you didn't. I saw you didn't.
Townie : Naw, mate... I gave her a tenner.
Solicitor : Look, there's a policeman right outside. Do you want me to go and get him ?
Townie : I don't care. Get 'im if you like. I'll just get a solicitor.
Solicitor : Oh really ?
Townie : Yeah. [Name of Solicitor] got my mates off. He'll get me off too.
Solicitor : Do you really think he'll defend you on a charge of trying to rip off his wife ? Now fuck off.
The colours are back...
|
12.7.05 14:47
|
|
I had neglected to shave
...my head for absolutely ages, and consequently have been walking round with a melon like a microphone for far too long. I finally got round to buying myself a new set of clippers yesterday (£3.99 from Wilko - it'd make her proud), and got Surf-Film-Maker Chap to do the honours. So did me a mohawk, and dared me to join him in the pub with it. This was no real challenge. The challenge came in getting rid of it. Everyone seemed to really like it, including me. But I knew that the editor of The Rag would make me shave it off. So I coldly disposed of it this morning before going to work. I have become institutionalised. I am a lily-livered candy-ass sell-out motherfucker. I knew full well that I'd be made to shave it off (I even asked the editor, just to be sure); but the point is, I didn't even try. My spirit has been lying in a box for who knows how long, its headstone obscured by crawling ivy, and I can't even remember where it's buried. Boo. On the plus side, my head is nice and smooth.
|
14.7.05 11:36
|
|
And so begins
...the Great Hunt For Lemonsquash's Soul. I've lost it somewhere along the way, and now I'd like it back. I just bumped into a chum of mine (and fellow ghost-hunter) in Stresscos, and told her my plight. Like a true friend she empathised (and didn't tell me to stop talking so much feculence, like most other right-minded folk), and offered me a bag of Iced Gems. Which I gladly accepted. Could my soul be in there ?  Certainly, there was a lemony flavour. So as I wired into these nostalgic little treats, I got a taste for my absent spirit. But sadly, this was just emulation. My *actual* soul wasn't in the bag. Well, that would've been a bit too easy, wouldn't it ? Deeper digging is required, methinks. If anybody happens upon my soul out there, feel free to drop me a line and let me know how it's doing.
|
14.7.05 13:03
|
|
So the Great Hunt
...For Lemonsquash's Soul continues. I figured I would have to delve right back to get some clues; so my school year's tenth anniversary reunion this weekend was pretty timely. Myself and Blonde Curly Physio went to school together, so we both made the pilgrimage to our home-town in her van. We knew it was going to be weird. But fun. But weird. The original plan had been to get ourselves in the mood by watching a bunch of reunion movies like 'Grosse Point Blank' before we went. However, the weather had been just too nice to justify watching films prior to, so we were gonna have to go in cold. Or drunk. I met up with a group of good mates of old in a pub before going to the reunion venue. I'm surprised that not one of us had brought along a fountain pen for old time's sake. When we were in the third year, amongst our numerous epic ink battles (I swear that we were so well practised, we could fire ink from a biro), we destroyed the wall of a freshly painted room with a dozen different shades, and the school demanded money from us to pay for it to be repainted. The fact that none of us bore arms that evening was doubly a shame as only one of us had followed the school uniform brief, and would've been the obvious target. I hope to remedy this at the next reunion in ten or fifteen years' time. So we drank and bantered as if we hadn't just let the last decade slip through our fingers. It was a good start. The turnout was pretty poor considering our year was around 150 strong. I think my first reaction was being secretly pleased that I wasn't the one who'd lost the most hair since school. Then I spotted my first girlfriend, and was gobsmacked. She looked absolutely sensational. And - as I was soon to learn - despite now having three children. The cold shudder that pulsed its way up my spine at this point seemed to indicate that the expiry of my soul is not intrinsically linked with not having sired any mewling little parasites (by which of course I mean glowing little angels). Despite the stilted conversation, it was great to see her. She insisted on taking my number, and vowed to stay in touch. This was a good thing. I don't know if any of you have noticed, but I don't do earnest that well. But my usual cold, ironic detachment was challenged on numerous occasions during the evening. Not in the least because it was peppered with conversations that went along the lines of "it's been really good to see you again"; and that - for the best part - it wasn't just something you say. One friend (who incidentally once sliced open my thumb with a knife in a trick gone wrong) told me how he'd always relied on me for advice during our school years, as I was considered to be wise ahead of my years, and could always be sensible and impartial. I thought the subsequent years couldn't have been kind to his memory. But - the recoil at such sincere gushery aside - it was a very nice thing to hear. The party was brought to a premature end after one chap - a vulva at school, and evidently a vulva to this day - smashed up a cistern in the gents. This led to everyone having to stump up a few quid each to cover the lost deposit. But one of the highlights of the evening followed when a drunken rem took the mic, and made an announcement to all present... "Listen... No, shut up... Listen... Some... bastard's bust the bog..." He rambled semi-coherently for about another minute, before reaching a crescendo with " You're all a bunch of wankers". At this point, his broadcast privileges mysteriously expired. Clearly a comprehensive school education did him no harm. There's more to tell about the evening, but it can wait for another entry. But I will mention now that - as we were driving back through the sunkissed countryside the following day - I announced to Curly Blonde Physio that I felt that my soul had been at least partially restored. She informed me that this had nothing to do with the reunion, and everything to do with the fact that we'd been listening to some old Def Leppard 'greats' whilst barbequing together on Friday evening. So that told me.
|
19.7.05 12:26
|
|
My post yesterday
...got no comments. But I bet my testicles that this entry - despite saying nothing - will get more.
|
20.7.05 09:12
|
|
Inspired by
... Kate's wabs... Song titles with boobs in them. I'll start us off with 'Norksville Girl' and 'Save The Breasts For Last'. Suggestions ?
|
20.7.05 12:46
|
|
In theory, I have
...a positively tempestuous abundance of blog material, falling over itself to be channelled onto these pages through my fingertips. But in practice, I am so fucking busy at work that I am one Post-It in my intray away from crawling under my desk, sobbing wretchedly and clutching myself, with little hope of recovery in this lifetime. It is worth taking a break for just a minute however, so that I can tell you that I saw another blogger in hot girl-on-girl action yesterday evening. I even took a photo. I wanted The Rag to print it in my forthcoming review of 'Twelfth Night', hence pushing the boundaries and showing its first ever sapphic smooch. But the Editor didn't want to. Spoilsport. This isn't the first time she's pissed on my chips (although admittedly the angle of the photo did suck too, but we shall ignore that for the moment). She wouldn't let me moon Eddie Windsor on his recent visit to the county either, claiming she'd fire me. How unkind. This is why I am going to make a conscious effort to work for myself in future.
|
22.7.05 13:28
|
|
I would seem to have
...a spare five minutes in which I'm not being totally buttfucked at work, so I'll tell you a couple of bits from my weekend. - Friday stank. Work was hectic, and I had to sit through no less than four totally discordant 'songs' performed by a junior school orchestra in an assembly for a retiring headmaster. During this, I could practically hear my in-tray filling as I shifted my weight impatiently from buttock to buttock. It was alright for a couple of hours after work (sweet sweet cider always lifts the day, I find), but then I got royally bollocked by my ladyfriend, and had a massive argument with my cunt of a next-door neighbour in the middle of the street at about half-past eleven. It got sufficiently heated at one point that we were nose-to-nose (I hasten to add that he was employing this pitiful bully-boy tactic, not me). And he threatened to call the police, and send solicitors' letters. It is also worth noting that I had done nothing to warrant this. After this I watched '28 Days Later', as I wanted to see things splat. - Saturday was a whole lot better. I lay in until midday, went surfing, drank, and ate free pizza. Wot could be better ? My old housemate recently decided to scrap his plans of going to Thailand to work, due to his new ladyfriend. Although myself and friends were happy that he had found love, and would be sticking around, we couldn't help but feel that he was a bit of a stinky ballsucking sell-out. But now his lady has decided to go with him, so he's off again. As such, we had a leaving do for him on Saturday night, which was all very jolly. I like happy endings. - The Odd Couple returned from being away for a week. It was nice having the house to myself, as I could do stuff like listen to Helmet and Public Enemy really loud, and use more than one shelf in the fridge. It is interesting to note that, on their return, despite the hallway being totally littered with stuff from their expedition for a couple of days, they wasted no time in condensing all of my chilled foody items back onto the one shelf, leaving my area stuffed but the rest of the fridge almost completely empty. I hope that you lovely readers can see exactly why I call them 'The Odd Couple'. Incidentally, it is also worth noting that I quite like the Odd Couple really (shhh... don't tell anyone). To illustrate this, a conversation from this morning : Odd Male : Are you covering the County Show soon ? That'll be awful. I went last year, sneaked in for free, and still felt ripped off.
Lemonsquash : I will be covering it, yes. And no, I'm not looking forward to it.
Odd Male : It might be alright if you like tractors.
Lemonsquash : I'm not really a fan, no.
Odd Male : But I understand you used to like them ?
Lemonsquash : Did I ?
Odd Male : Yes. You're an ex-tractor fan.This joke was truly terrible, but it did make me laugh. There was more, but a lot of it is unrepeatable, or just not blogworthy. So I'll shut up.
|
25.7.05 14:52
|
|
[next page]
|
