That pure Cane Spirit since 1848.
Saturday, June 13, 2009
Thank God for the bomb.
I am acutely aware that by 14.58 BST today, Boris Johnson and Cameron (I forget his first name; is it Ian?) have already accomplished a lot.
They are old Etonians you see. I am of an age when all my heroes were Etonians. It was the only school worth mentioning. In fact a college. Now my school was a college too, and we had the twin chips on our shoulders of being Scotch and Jesuit. Beat that! Let
I’ve met three; Etonians that is. They were très good company and as tough as nails and had that effortless English quality of being at ease. I became quite friendly with one, for a while, a year or so, during various crises in the world of agriculture. We emailed regularly, got pissed a few times home and away, had him home to dinner, that sort of thing. I would meet him at the airport and he had that superb way of looking very grateful to be met. Perhaps he was. Anyway, we got on. He was elevating company. What a leech I am. He liked malt whiskies and I have an "in" where malt whisky is concerned and would press white labelled bottles of Glen Farclas 1968 (62% ABV) on him as he left for
I foolishly dropped all my network a while back. Pissed them against the wall like the faux Benzedrine I was guzzling at the time.
To get back to the subject; I, on the other hand, have done sweet Fanny Adams today.
Because I am not an Old Etonian?
Because I am an old, hopeless, worthless aunt with an autumnal timor mortis perched on my shoulder the size of a parrot.
OH bee tee doubleyou Pat, a "Frenchie" is a kiss, nothing more. Shame on you if you thought otherwise.
Tuesday, June 09, 2009
‘Twas in the year two thousand and nine, on a cold summer’s day,
That poor Doctor Maroon woke a la William Ard, to find he was gay,
He had retired to bed early, totally straight (and utterly pissed)
So imagine the mental turmoil to awake as a homosexualist.
His revelationary conversion to soft furnishings and indirect lighty,
Made him feel like Pseudo-Dionysius the Areopagite,
“Oh me! Oh my!” he said, I must sit on this news,
Yet the camp old sod couldn’t resist praising his lady-friend’s shoes,
“This just puts the tin hat on it.” thought the impecunious gay git,
“When Poor Mother finds out, she’ll have a violent, possibly fatal, conniption fit,”
“Well that’s just too bad.” he flounced, “all I ever was, was her glorified chauffeur,”
And he danced a defiant little hornpipe, being now shocking light in the loafer.
“I knew all along.” lied Jayne-Marie, a girl with the morals of a stoat,
“Anyone could tell he was as bent as a three pound note.”
“Where will it end?” thought the clapped out, pissed up, academic Nobel dreamer,
Now admitting his love of stage musicals and sparkly drapes, the sad old screamer.
Saturday, June 06, 2009
Painful muscle pull, lower back, left side.
Bruising various odd places. Very odd places.
General feeling of having gone 3 rounds with Turkish boxer.
Alarming record of various latenight calls on cell phone
Still fully dressed.
Yes I think I had a good night last night.
I must pad the furniture edges like one sees in the houses of the blind
Yeah, blind drunk you aunt.
Ok that’s enough.
Today at the eleventh hour, as the bell tolls, I am cleaning up my act, getting my shit together, taking stock, striding out into the new day. I shall bathe, ablute and dress with care. Full cuff link presentation, pomade on hair, polished boots. I am not a mollusc, I am a free man! Christ give me a drink someone, perllease!
Has the British government fallen yet? I hope not. Good old Mandy. Cometh the hour cometh the man.