by
Emsbabee
@ 2006-08-25 - 13:59:42
...to feel good. Except if you want to feel good in Bognor's premier nightclub on a Friday night. Then it's going to cost you a considerable amount of drinks. Oh well, I've got to go, it's Johnny's last supper, as he's leaving the fold of Chichester for the brand shiny new pastures of...Bedfordshire. To become a primary school teacher. Which he'll be excellent at, as he has inhuman amounts of patience, and no matter how many times he hears 'Sir, I've wet myself' or 'Timmy's been sick in the sandpit' will merely utter a brief prayer under his breath and fetch the mop.
Grace Dent has a new blog! Yay, huzzah and thank fuck for that, as I was getting rather worried that I would have to start buying the Guardian again if I ever wanted to read her opinions on 'Celebrity Enema' or 'When Good Kettles Go Bad'.
"Tiny hipster-short bikinis are what it's all about this year," says fashion designer Ben de Lisi, accompanied by footage of emaciated women on catwalks, "but of course you need a very long, boyish body to wear them."
What? A long boyish body? Say, like one that belongs to a long boyish boy? Yes, that'll fly with any woman older than 18 who's had dinner this century. Where do I get one of these boyish boy garments? Tell me now! I've got an X Factor audition I must humiliate myself on."
http://www.radiotimes.com/content/features/tvod/
My sister went to a festival last weekend, which she hasn't shut up about since. Am getting very tired about hearing stories of men dressed as chickens and people throwing up in bins. Yes, I know, I'm old and grumpy, and couldn't afford to go.
Anyway, she met a man there. His name is 'Amazing Dave'. Apparently he is addicted to ploughmans, and always relies on 'a couple of broccolis' to sort out his system after a particularly heavy session. He has hair in which a family of squirrels could happily set up home in, and build an extension for Granny. It's huwge. He floats around Britain, blagging his way into other people's parties, festivals and homes. She is in love with him. She wants to be his bitch, and trail round Guildford after him in search of the next illegal acid house dance-off in some teenager's garage.
She is coming down to Brighton next weekend, specially to see him, and seems to think that we'll be quite happy to let him sleep in our flat. Well, that'd be a no. It's going to be our first night in our icky wicky extra special oozy woozy pad of lurve. I do not want Amazing Dave curled up under the fridge, or trying to impress us by juggling his own eyeballs. I know that's not the Brighton way, and we are supposed to throw open our homes in a benevolent Bohemian spirit, cooking elaborate meals and sharing them with people we met on the bus and playing harps and snorting coke off each other and stuff. But that's gonna take some practice. We're going to spend our first night reading poetry to each other in the nude. Not searching Dave's mop to find the remote control, and listening to the story of the time he woke up in somebody's shoe.
