Saturday, 17 January 2009

A Return

My boxing day hangover has gone, I'm refreshed, ready to go, bounce around in a field for a bit, do something worthwhile, perhaps eat a salad, rescue a bear, buy a big issue, stop smoking, choose life and become an all round good citizen of the world. Ahem, to my right, 20 boxes of Saudi Marlboro Reds, made in Germany, bought for £5, street value, £100. All for me. To my left, cigarette butts floating in remainder of sweet and sour sauce from two nights ago, chicken balls are nowhere to be seen. At me feet, laying on its side atop a mound of mismatched socks and lecture notes is a half empty (definitely half empty) bottle of Sainsbury's basics (they don't even give a capital B, they really do cut down on the quality) cider. Yum. Behind me, my sink, four, five, no that's the other end of that one, oh yes, four empty (or not full) cans of Carlsberg. Above the sink, a mirror, oh dear lord.

And that's how cool I am, well, I say me, the new me, the one who I think is a twat, nowhere near as cool as the me me, or the not me but actually me me, or the not quite not me but potentially not not me me. I don't expect you to understand. I expect I don't expect me to understand.

Wasn't Christmas amazing??? I don't think anybody noticed it, it sort of slipped past undetected on the radar amidst the interference of our collective impending financial and emotional meltdown. Happy Christmas, where's my Prozac??

My little sister got a Nintendo DS gizmo whotsit bobbin jobby for Christmas, enabling her to "interact" with pet animals, dogs, cats, hamsters, gimps, you name it. She got excited at being able to feed, play with and, most importantly, clean a pet hamster. Twilight (hasty introduction of simple character: a hamster, real, Roz's Christmas present last year) sat looking on, weeping her small hamster tears, one by one, into stale food, unchanged since Halloween.

I got things, music-ish things, Kings of Leon tickets, Fratelli's tickets, iTunes vouchers (redeemed so far by Johnny Foreigner, MGMT and, unfortunately, Alphabeat) and a guitar amp made from a cigarette box. Been banging on music for a while now, going with it as well, set up a band, a real, recording, performing, pouting band, beautiful. We're called Get-out Claws (though Vicus didn't really like it, I failed to take heed to his advice and alternatively think inproportionately i.e. he doesn't like it therefore it is a rockin' and a rollin') and we're a two piece. I'm not going to plug it, apparently that annoys people (you know who YOU are), but we're on myspace at so if you want to hear what it's really like being a fairly unimaginative post-disaffected youth of the future, check us out.

That's all really, oh, apart from my mother instilling in me a rampaging love for Pernod (preferably mixed with Babysham).......I just read that back and noticed how gay it sounded, hmmm, should address that. We burned a copy of Wuthering Heights the other night for my friend's art project, I have been asked to act in a friend's short film for his film and photography type course and MY BAND'S MYSPACE IS WWW.MYSPACE.COM/GETOUTCLAWSMUSIC