Paul D is a jovial old fellow, and never more than when he phones up on a whim and recants rubbish down the phone. He phoned up this evening, for example, to tell me, amongst other things, of a particularly amusing Monty Python sketch involving a wafer-thin mint, a man on television with huge jug-like ears, and the fact that he was working 80-hour weeks. His rambling, disorientated train of thought only stopped chugging when his voice gave way, leaving him to whisper his goodbyes, while complaining bitterly at the lack of his name on my website. All rectified now, I hope. GIVE THAT MAN A BANANA, and chuck some throat lozenges in as well, for heavens sake.
April 2002 Archives - wibbler.com
The day has finally come. For the last hour, I haven’t been able to find anything to do on the internet. The night has become so boring that the BBC News page hasn’t changed for 40 minutes. Anyone got any ideas?
Meantime, I suppose it’s time for some fresh air…
And then a friend stars on Young, Posh and Loaded (description at bottom of linkpage) – appearing thoroughly drunk with those big ears of his… although, hold on, LOADED? Where’s his number, I must get him to invite me somewhere…
UPDATE: There seems to be an awful lot of comments on this entry – where in jimeny’s name are you all coming from? Email me please, and put me out of my misery…
Well, that WAS a fun weekend, all in all! Just come back from a three day jaunt to Bath, where we stayed in a cracking hotel, Dorian House and consumed enormous quantities of champagne (See?). With all the buildings looking exactly the same, and the truly awful one-way system, I managed to get lost just the twice, a vast improvement on previous visits. Well done me. We wined and dined at two restaurants (here’s number two) and finally managed on the third and final day to see the Roman Baths, which are, surprisingly, far more interesting than being just a luke-warm pool of water in the town centre. The whole city was NAMED after it, for crying out loud… The height of amusement came on our visit to the Moon and Sixpence restaurant, a distinctly posh place. during our starter, the lights dimmed dramatically, which we presumed was to heighten the romantic atmosphere, only for Michelle to pipe up rather loudly, “Anyone got 50p for the meter?” Splendid!
What is it with socks? I’ve always complained in the past that I never have enough socks, and these (not so) subtle hints result in sock replenishments every now and then. So tonight I decided to turn my sock drawer out (yes, it’s been a slow day…). And i’m shocked. 74 socks. An ENORMOUS amount. But here’s the problem: only 24 of them match. 12 pairs. That’s it. Where do the other socks go? Is there a sock fairy? Do they all end up, washed out and craggy, in a small retirement home for socks in Wiltshire? I’ve taken to wearing odd socks now, mainly because early mornings aren’t the best sock-searching times, but mostly to fill in those awkward pauses in conversation. “So, Queen Mother’s died then. “Yes.” (awkward pause) “But hey, look at my socks!”
Oh, the shocked faces as I turned to my colleagues this afternoon and said, “Right, off I go for four days, see you.” As I swept out of the room with all the flourish of the Great Suprendo, all I could hear was whispered mutterings – “Who’s going to fix all the systems now when we do something wrong?”
I shall ignore the 8 o’clock morning “HELP!!!” call with glee….
After all the FUN OF THE FAIR on Friday night, we were all washed out. Jac looked truly awful, emptying his stomach for most of the afternoon, while I was at work, a virtual zombie. A small night at the Cranley Hotel was called for for us all, where Jac and Shaun were due to sing their hearts out at Open Mike night. After Jac’s previous night’s success with Becki, both of them were a little apprehensive of meeting again, but things went well. Until, sadly, the landlord (a personal friend of Jac) turned up. Interrupting a perfectly civil conversation between Jac and Becki, the landlord drew up the table and announced, “So, Jac, I hear you pulled last night.” Everyone stopped talking. Tumbleweed skitted past. Jac’s life flashed before him, as everyone imagined the blokey gossip, congratulations and slaps on the back that must have gone on not half an hour before. “So, who was she? Was she nice?” the landlord asked again, ignoring the utter horror on our faces. “Well?”, the landlord again asked, desperate to glean any information at all from his clammed-up friend. Eventually, something had to give.
“Steve,” said Jac, “meet Becki.”
After the laughter died down, we tried to rescue the evening, but Jac, out of sheer embarrassment, and Becki, out of sheer awkwardness, barely talked for the rest of the night.
It was ALMOST worth it…