That pure Cane Spirit since 1848.

Saturday, January 14, 2006

Friday night-Saturday afternoon

The best laid plans of mice and men aft gang agley. It’s rotten when your friends can’t come out to play. In fact it’s utter shite.

The day started poorly.

“Kin-hell Maroon, Elvis lives! Viva Las Vegas!” (singing)
“Right. Just TELL me what to wear then.”
“Well, the baseball jacket? Come on.”
“It’s warm, it’s got pockets with zips. I got it in America you know”
“Yeah, but it‘s a bit…”
“You always have me looking like a fucking country squire or poacher or something.”
“Better that than Babe Ruth”
“I feel like one of Austin Reed’s fucking dummies.”
“Wear what you want…if you’re comfortable.”

And so, off into town. She with her friends to spend their monies like waves on the sea buying frivolities and ladies requisites, me to have some drinks and hearty banter. Ah the banter.

Phone up friend (A)
“Hey Bobbaayyy! Black Jack’s this afternoon? Few beers, game’s on Setanta have a laugh with the other Weekend Tims?”
“Can’t. Her parent’s are up.”
“Bring them!”
“Aye right. He doesn’t walk that well.”
“Who’s asking him to fucking walk? She can run you in and the pub’s got seats now.”
“Ha Ha It’s not gonna happen.”

Phone friend (B)
“Heyy, how’s it hanging you big dopey cunt!?”
“Ack is that you?”
“Oh hi Diane, you’ve got Dan’s phone then?”
“Looks like it”
“Is he about?”
“No he’s away playing golf”
“Golf? (He’ll be joining the lodge next) When’s he back?”
“Who knows? He’s left his phone!”

It wasn’t THAT bad, there’s always someone who’ll listen in a pub. (4:2 for Celtic)
I have heard that women share the sacrosanct secrets of the bedroom with their friends. I hope she lies a bit.
It’s half nine, I’m not going local; I’ll just stay in now. Friday and Saturday, IN both nights, le weekend’s not shaping up at all at all.

Hoopoe and Roller. (Common in Namibia)

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