Well, there you go. Times are officially tough. These are the only trousers I have that fit me, other than my black work trousers, and they now have a big rip in the knee. Not a ‘I bought it that way because I’m all anti-establishment and “who says jeans should be in-tact anyway” and stuff’ rip, nor even because of a singular event of cutting them on something, but simply due to old age. These have been my trusty jeans for about four years; during which time, they’ve basically been the only trousers I’ve worn.
And now they’re gone, and I haven’t a fuck’s chance of affording new ones. Fuck. Requiescat in pace, jeans… you weak-fibered betrayer; or possibly ‘betrayers’. I can’t figure out whether I need to continue using plurals to describe something that is singular, but is referred to as ‘a pair of’. Interesting. Note to self: think about this all night long and be sure to not get any sleep.
Well, my brother Daniel is visiting the day after tomorrow (the one who apparently looks like Brad Pitt, not the one who looks like… I don’t know who Marcus looks like actually, but never mind) with his lady-friend Molly, so that’ll be cool. I was hoping to have at least a single monetary note with which to take him/them/everyone in our assorted group out for a drink, but alas, that isn’t the case. I hope they like eggs, because that’s basically the only food we have. Lots of them. Becky’s mum has chickens. Yes, it’s weird.
Anyway… visitors. That’s cool. An island of cool in the tedious ocean that is my life at the moment. A small peppering of cool, sprinkled atop lashings of fuck everything. That’s the forecast for my immediate future. Forecast, or recipe? ‘Lashings’ and ‘sprinkles’ makes it sound like I was doing a cookery analogy. I guess the island/ocean analogy was perfectly apt as well, but whatever. We’ll go with the weather one. Some dry spells of warm coolness (oxymoron?), to break up the long winter of cloudy discontent. That’s the forecast for my immediate future.
Okay, let’s break this down a little. It’s mostly a blur of endlessly discussing which body of water, be it pool, beach, other pool, or other beach, to lie beside; but I shall try to jot down a loose itinerary of my two weeks in St Lucia. One thing that you can take as a given on each and every day is that several Rastafarians would demand that we fist bump them (and then offer us drugs), and several over-enthusiastic bartenders would satiate us with an inexhaustible supply of rum punches that were slightly stronger than pure gasoline. The endless photos will be around soon (mostly of topless people who probably shouldn’t be topless), but until then, here’s the gist of what we got up to.
Hey, friends! One of my older brothers is taking part in a gruelling, 12 mile obstacle course for an RAF charity in a few months, and he’s literally going to die (ironically ahead of his deployment in Afghanistan later this year), so I’m sure it’d mean a lot to him if some of you guys could, at least repost this, or at most make a teeny tiny donation to throw upon his weary, lifeless corpse. The charity is to care for the loved ones of, and invalided members of, the Royal Air Force. I know most of my followers are American and Canadian, but an injured soldier is still an injured soldier, and a grieving widow is still a grieving widow. It’d be amazing to help Dan raise some money, so please repost this, and give a click to the link below.
But while we’re on the subject, here’s a link to my Facebook page, that I want some of you to ‘like’. Pretend something good will happen to you if you do… which I guess it will, because you get to read my funny (terrible) jokes, and see the links to my hilarious (awful) posts.
Seriously though, it’d be awesome… and then we can all be friends on Facebook too, and slowly try to destroy it from the inside, because it’s awful.
Poor little apostrophe. He knows his place, and more importantly, he knows when he’s not in it. Some, or all, will say that it isn’t really too important, and that as long as you get the gist of what is meant, then the grammatical semantics of the written word can probably fall by the wayside. However, if the boat of proper grammar truly is sinking, then I would rather let the weight of a million neglected semi-colons and brackets pull me down to the dreary depths of the abyss, than abandon ship and take refuge upon the misplaced and miserable apostrophe that hangs lifeless between the O and the S in the word: photo’s, or cling to safety upon the second f in the word of.
1. Organise my clothes.
2. Work on the book.
3. Tidy the flat.
4. Write up my next Impersonals article.
5. Do the washing up.
6. Look for a place to live back home.
7. Take the bins out.
8. Throw away the Christmas tree.
9. Post a late Christmas present to my brother.
What I have done:
1. Eat an entire bag of cheese Doritos with an entire jar of salsa dip.
Sex, like money, colours your pursuit of happiness from the moment it enters your life. You can alway have more money for better possessions, and you can always have more sex with ‘better‘ partners. It leaves us incapable of true fulfilment, a never ending cycle of the greener grass mentality. It becomes how we define ourselves; all that we do being to impress, and better ourselves in the eyes of others. Continue reading →