I Fucked Up

Turns out Gogol Bordello are quite good. Maybe a bottle of gin and a bottle of dark rum were a factor. Who knows? Sorry Laurence, chalk it up as one-all...

Torn Again

Another hangover this time the result of a going-away party for the Cov Beetle, during which we kicked the shit out of his house and tried to make a zombie film on his mobile phone. Upshot is, I lengthened a worrying trend I've been noticing recently, in that I ripped a fuck-off hole in the crotch of my trousers while performing my own stunts in said film. Not as dirty as it sounds. Anyway, partly because I'm off Liverpool at the end of September (they let me in to study Law, the fools) and didn't want to be burdened with unnecessary shit to move over, and partly because I was too damned lazy to carry all the shite from Delhi Street to my current abode round the corner, I chucked out the majority of my trousers and jeans - they hadn't been worn in donkeys, so I figured fuck them. Now the downside to this comes during the move, when I tear a frayed gash in the fork of my jeans trying to pick up a box, thereby leaving me with two other functional pairs of trousers. One bit the dust when I drunkenly tried to wrest my guitar from the mount of shit it was under in my room, the other in the filming of the aforementioned short.
This led to my having to make a bad choice between waddling to Botanic without a gusset in my trousers, or dandering up with a massy hole in the front, and hoping to Hell my boxers did their job,. I chose Boxer Roulette, and set off for a charity shop to replenish the stocks.

A few things I pondered on the way:
- Having a haircut is an expensive and bothersome hobby, not unlike windsurfing, but far less fun - complicated apparatus, dependence of wind conditions etc. Why does everyone look this way if it's so much hassle?
- But then when has that ever mattered to people who worry about the fashion of the day? Botox? Arsenic? Belladonna?
- There was a lot more scope to get off your kite if you were wealthy before Wall Street crashed the first time. It must have been a lot easier to get on with drug stores, rather than shitty Numark chemists, on the corner. That is until the economy went splat, then another World War happened, making the rich poor and the poor dead. And we're still squabbling over who's who today.
- That odd time of day, round about five, when the bakeries and charity shops are closed or closing, but before decent bars or take-aways open properly- what to do if you've £3 in your pocket? Nothing to do really, unless you count going to Witherspoon's for three pints of pish ale, which just about gives you a thirst, and is therefore counter-productive.
So I fucked off here to the old faithful library, to vent some spleen and kick my brain into order again. This weekend will be messy. The one fucker I know in Liverpool's coming back over for his 21st, so we're going to say goodbye to Belfast. You have been warned.