What do you think :-
Terrine of goat’s cheese, apple and home made fois gras with a green leaf salad and honey vinaigrette
Selection of Spanish home cured meats
Squid cooked in it’s own ink with rice
Too much for a Monday night? Didn’t think so.
Went to Dr Heartbreak’s leaving do on Saturday. Very good fun and I even DJed for about ½ an hour. Unfortunately my taste in music (bangin’ chowns) did not really meet the Fat Doctor’s required music policy (guitar music of the indie variety 1985-1992) so was removed, but the crowd were mad for it. Well some of them were anyway.
It would also appear that I could of pulled. OK the person in question was dead drunk throwing herself at everyone and generally making a bit of a scene, but they all count. Naturally of course I hid down the far end of the bar behind a big row of pints when I realised that X was lunging at me, but that’s NOT THE POINT ;-)
Speaking of scoring a certain Mr S was also to be seen locked in a hideous lip smacking clinch for most of the night. Now this is understandable because Mr S hasn’t had any action in about a billion years, and she was pretty damn gorgeous, so revolting spit swapping can be forgiven on this occasion. Poor Mr S. Women tend to fancy him until they realise what a very strange man he really is – a sort of cross between Bez, Worzell Gummidge and the Hermit of Lindisfarne – though usually they never get as far as touching him due to the massive cloud of drug crazed madness that swirls around him at all times. Self described current occupation : watching daytime cartoons and masturbation. And he’s not lying.
Catching up with him later he seemed somewhat bemused, not to say alarmed by having this gorgeous young lady surgically attach herself to his face. It didn’t help that he then told me that he hasn’t tidied his bedroom since he moved in 7 years ago. And note what I said earlier – it’s not like it hasn’t been tidied because it doesn’t need it. Must find out how the evening resolved itself. Hopefully Mr S played the gentleman card and beetled off home to clean up pronto . . .
But then I can hardly talk myself. Psychologically a room that looks like the left over dinner in Saddam Hussein’s beard is copping off protection. Nothing can ever happen because you can’t let it happen or then someone would see the midden you live in.
Why do we do it to ourselves? As if life wasn’t complicated enough without adding in one’s own concocted psychological mysteries. Eeeesh.
Boss Man! Do stare at your computer like it’s an alien being and then proceed to hunt and peck your way through some tragic torturous e-mail? Here’s a tip : Retire. Now.