shirt stains hop grains

So now, before i become doughnutised on a Wednesday morning, I think now may be a good time to tell you of my weekend, all be it a lil late n'all.

It all began in the free doughnut bar on Friday night, after sinking much beery Becks into the wee magpie belly. I had just returned from a meeting with PG Tips, discussing how best to package and mail a million tea bags, and was wondering how the hell we were going to discretely obtain a million of their competitors bags without their knowledge. Like going into the corner shop and saying, "excuse me maam, i would like to buy one million of these, but dont tell anyone." I can see the little old local shopkeeper now, gingerly handing them over the counter, and me stuffing them into my trundle trolley bag on wheels.

I was still in the garb i wore for the meeting a yellow shirt and the lesser half of a suit. Dr Neil Johnson, having dissed my shirt, invited me to meet his sister in the 'Slug and lettuce' in Soho. After dealing with a 'Wondercow hatht locked cowself out of house can magpie order a bike to deliver the keys to him NOW and hide it on a job number' situation, we sped to the slug, and consumed more yeast. A freaky London connection occurred when i discovered that Neils sister Amanda was none other than co employee of Frank, my eurovisionatical Scottish friend, which was very random, not to mention scary. Amanda subsequently tipped her glass of red wine over my yellow shirt, making her the second member of the Johnson family to diss it in the space of an hour. If shirts could be paranoid, this one would hide in a darkened shoe box.

The slug sealed at 11pm and we excitedly spewed out into Leicester Square, where, (in our inebriated state) we proceeded in quoting Southparkisms to random passers by while air punching. (This you understand was when South Park was still funny and not diluted in the tsunami of promotional dirtchendise in the Virgin Megastore and greater evil of Clinton cards.) Its incredible how the cries of 'Beefcake' receive warm reception from tourists and locals alike who revelled in the comradary of a shared joke.

While on the underground platform at Leicester Square, we watched the mice scurrying along the tracks always ready to witness the moment when one misplaces a paw on the live rail and frazzles like a kipper. Why does it never happen? Beside us a gaggle of girls were also admiring the rattiness (disgusting filthy creatures), so i made some cheesy comment about the mice, and we began talking to them. Neil asks one girl where she's from, only to discover she went to the same uni in Leeds as the one he lectured Psychology in, and it turns out her best friend was Neils top student, who often spoke of him. Freaky bizarre part deux.

After some sly tube fare evasion, we crashed at Neil's sisters house in South Kensington, where we got five minutes into LA confidential before deciding it was boring and all we wanted to watch was the backs of our eyelids, so slept. Cat Muffy the sandman slayer then proceeded to keep us awake most of the night, running around the room, and ringing it's shitty little bell, while i fantasised about running around the room and ringing it's shitty little neck! I managed to lock it out of the room by barracading the door it had learnt to open, using three phone books and the doctors boots. I was then kept awake by incessent scratching and the paranoia that the little shit would desecrate the paintwork on the door.

Saturday morning saw Neil and I strut around the nasty boutiques on the Kings road, before alighting in pigeon strewn Trafalgar Square. We paced around Nelsons Column ( >insert smut here< ) waiting for one of his friends. Said friedster arrived at lunchtime, and we proceeded in visiting trendy chinese
noodle bar 'Wagammammas' , which i can never seem to find on my own. Everyone sits on rows of wooden benches next to strangers, bumping arms and paranoiacly slurping noodles with the fear of splashing the sleeves of the fat bloke next to you. It is here that the yellow shirt was the victim of a brutal noodle soup splash attack

The evening was spent with the thoughts of rodents and booze, where I met some more of the doctors pals, one of whom freakily turned out to be best buds with someone I sat next to at the doughnut. Declining her benevolent offer to be introduced to her chinchilla and vodka, we rode top deck on the big red double decker bus and played rollercoaster while we sang bee gees numbers and ‘drove’. We managed to get the passengers behind to join in on the chorus of ‘staying alive’. The final walk back from the bus stop blessed me with yet another shirt stain as the overhanging bridge dripped wet slimy mud from on high as we passed under it. Ole yellow shirt subsequently gave up on the will to live and wept.

One last Guinness and a dance to a cheesy ‘Commitmentesque’ band at The Worlds End was all it took to send us wearily back to Neils house, where we were awestruck by the beauty of a Jackie Chan film, with the sound on mute and the ‘future sound of London’ cd replacing the nasty dialogue and cheap sound effects, a stunning trade. It was during this that I met Neils baby girls. Twin sister rats, Zippy and Bungle, white with black spots how cute and antiverminesque. We let them have a run around the room, taking care not to flatten their long skinny tails by steppage, before deciding it might be a nice idea to offer them some of our beer, as everyone knows rats like beer. So as not to spill beer on the carpet, it was decided it would be best to offer the rats a drink from the chalice of our mouths, so we each had a mouthful of beer, and offered our lips to the rats to drink from. Zippy lapped away at my lips and was very much enjoying the booze, when she cheekily slipped her tongue in! Zippy and bungle then staggered around the room before we all fell asleep. Another evening of new experience, my first snog with a rodent. I didn’t catch anything nasty from the rat, so stop cringing, although zippy subsequently died a week later but that was from old age……..

Sunday morning we had just enough time to stand on the sunny hilltops at Alexandra palace, site of the first UK tv transmission, before I set off to meet up with my then virtual friend Heather at Piccadilly Circus…….


Shirt stains and Hop grains- Jan 99 So now, before i become doughnutised on a Wednesday morning, I think now may be a good time to tell you of my weekend, all be it a lil late n'all. It all began in the free doughnut bar on Friday night, after sinking much beery Becks into the wee magpie belly. I had just returned from a meeting with PG Tips, discussing how best to package and mail a million tea bags, and was wondering how the hell we were going to discretely obtain a million of their competitors bags without their knowledge. Like going into the corner shop and saying, "excuse me maam, i would like to buy one million of these, but dont tell anyone." I can see the little old local shopkeeper now, gingerly handing them over the counter, and me stuffing them into my trundle trolley bag on wheels. I was still in the garb i wore for the meeting a yellow shirt and the lesser half of a suit. Dr Neil Johnson, having dissed my shirt, invited me to meet his sister in the 'Slug and lettuce' in Soho. After dealing with a 'Wondercow hatht locked cowself out of house can magpie order a bike to deliver the keys to him NOW and hide it on a job number' situation, we sped to the slug, and consumed more yeast. A freaky London connection occurred when i discovered that Neils sister Amanda was none other than co employee of Frank, my eurovisionatical Scottish friend, which was very random, not to mention scary. Amanda subsequently tipped her glass of red wine over my yellow shirt, making her the second member of the Johnson family to diss it in the space of an hour. If shirts could be paranoid, this one would hide in a darkened shoe box. The slug sealed at 11pm and we excitedly spewed out into Leicester Square, where, (in our inebriated state) we proceeded in quoting Southparkisms to random passers by while air punching. (This you understand was when South Park was still funny and not diluted in the tsunami of promotional dirtchendise in the Virgin Megastore and greater evil of Clinton cards.) Its incredible how the cries of 'Beefcake' receive warm reception from tourists and locals alike who revelled in the comradary of a shared joke. While on the underground platform at Leicester Square, we watched the mice scurrying along the tracks always ready to witness the moment when one misplaces a paw on the live rail and frazzles like a kipper. Why does it never happen? Beside us a gaggle of girls were also admiring the rattiness (disgusting filthy creatures), so i made some cheesy comment about the mice, and we began talking to them. Neil asks one girl where she's from, only to discover she went to the same uni in Leeds as the one he lectured Psychology in, and it turns out her best friend was Neils top student, who often spoke of him. Freaky bizarre part deux. After some sly tube fare evasion, we crashed at Neil's sisters house in South Kensington, where we got five minutes into LA confidential before deciding it was boring and all we wanted to watch was the backs of our eyelids, so slept. Cat Muffy the sandman slayer then proceeded to keep us awake most of the night, running around the room, and ringing it's shitty little bell, while i fantasised about running around the room and ringing it's shitty little neck! I managed to lock it out of the room by barracading the door it had learnt to open, using three phone books and the doctors boots. I was then kept awake by incessent scratching and the paranoia that the little shit would desecrate the paintwork on the door. Saturday morning saw Neil and I strut around the nasty boutiques on the Kings road, before alighting in pigeon strewn Trafalgar Square. We paced around Nelsons Column ( >insert smut here< ) waiting for one of his friends. Said friedster arrived at lunchtime, and we proceeded in visiting trendy chinese noodle bar 'Wagammammas' , which i can never seem to find on my own. Everyone sits on rows of wooden benches next to strangers, bumping arms and paranoiacly slurping noodles with the fear of splashing the sleeves of the fat bloke next to you. It is here that the yellow shirt was the victim of a brutal noodle soup splash attack The evening was spent with the thoughts of rodents and booze, where I met some more of the doctors pals, one of whom freakily turned out to be best buds with someone I sat next to at the doughnut. Declining her benevolent offer to be introduced to her chinchilla and vodka, we rode top deck on the big red double decker bus and played rollercoaster while we sang bee gees numbers and ‘drove’. We managed to get the passengers behind to join in on the chorus of ‘staying alive’. The final walk back from the bus stop blessed me with yet another shirt stain as the overhanging bridge dripped wet slimy mud from on high as we passed under it. Ole yellow shirt subsequently gave up on the will to live and wept. One last Guinness and a dance to a cheesy ‘Commitmentesque’ band at The Worlds End was all it took to send us wearily back to Neils house, where we were awestruck by the beauty of a Jackie Chan film, with the sound on mute and the ‘future sound of London’ cd replacing the nasty dialogue and cheap sound effects, a stunning trade. It was during this that I met Neils baby girls. Twin sister rats, Zippy and Bungle, white with black spots how cute and antiverminesque. We let them have a run around the room, taking care not to flatten their long skinny tails by steppage, before deciding it might be a nice idea to offer them some of our beer, as everyone knows rats like beer. So as not to spill beer on the carpet, it was decided it would be best to offer the rats a drink from the chalice of our mouths, so we each had a mouthful of beer, and offered our lips to the rats to drink from. Zippy lapped away at my lips and was very much enjoying the booze, when she cheekily slipped her tongue in! Zippy and bungle then staggered around the room before we all fell asleep. Another evening of new experience, my first snog with a rodent. I didn’t catch anything nasty from the rat, so stop cringing, although zippy subsequently died a week later but that was from old age…….. Sunday morning we had just enough time to stand on the sunny hilltops at Alexandra palace, site of the first UK tv transmission, before I set off to meet up with my then virtual friend Heather at Piccadilly Circus…….




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