Oh.
Oh dear.
Not sure where I stand on the events of Saturday night. My brain tells me it all went fine and there is nothing to worry about. My stomach is saying I need to consult a liver specialist. My bum hole is recommending good lawyers.
So a bit of a mixed bag then. It started off in the worst way, with me and My Good Lady Wife heading to the Cavern to see a night of 2-Tone ska. Fabbooo! Except they weren't on. The fuckers had cancelled. The Cavern being the Cavern, of course, and the most expensive fucking bar in town, didn't put signs outside warning people of this, but instead waited for them to descend Jacob's Ladder itself so that they'd be too fucked to leave and would have to stay for a few jars.
Bastards. I hate the Cavern. People who are not from Liverpool may be surprised to hear that the Cavern made famous by the Beatles is, in fact, a car park and has been for many many years. The Cavern that is now - and I'm thinking of all the unfortunate tourists taking photos of themselves beneath the sign that reads 'John Lennon took a piss here' - has nothing to do with Beatles history. It's an expensive fuck-bucket that plays Gloria Gaynor and Phil Collins and charges 7 for two drinks.
But I digress. So, having consumed an amount of Devil Liquor, My Good Lady Wife and I made the ascension out of the pit that is the Cavern to attend, instead, a celebration of punk at the Heaven and Hell bar. I hate this place because it's shit, and because the Hell section is upstairs (some radical theological deconstruction going on there) and because it's full of middle-class 15-year olds playing at being rebels. 'You got any E mate?' Go away you silly little infant, I'm regaling My Good Lady Wife with tales of war-time heroics.
However, all credit to Heaven n Hell, they put on a good show and there were some fine bands playing. Notably The Jabs: four sexy Scandanavian chicks, playing cracking rock n roll and looking as blonde, Scandanavian and chick-like as you could hope for on a cold February evening. The crowd roared, the band played on, and the wind cried Mary.
So we leave Heaven n Hell, mildly entertained, mildly drunk and, for my part, mildly tumescent. Marvellous. On then, oh dear god, to a bar I've never heard of, and can't now remember the location, where we meet up with my friend and his girlfriend, who happens to be a member of the Merseyside Constabulary and is known for chasing down drugs lords and beating the shit out of them.
Said bar is quiet, which isn't a bad thing for a Geezer like me. Said bar is open till 3am, so we can drink and recount amusing anecdotes undisturbed. However, said bar sells no known brands of alcohol. Guinness isn't Guinness but is, instead, Lowengraftuszsdatz. Lager isn't lager but is, instead, Howglenushcafflunblaggisch. Because this type of refreshment is brewed in the garage of a man called Greg in Toxteth, it contains certain levels of alcohol and preservatives that aren't normally available off prescription or unless you're a vet.
So. After, an amount of these, I entered what the medical profession know as the Three Stages of Illegal Refreshment Consumption:
1: Hallucinations
2: Blindness
3: Confession.
Now then, the first two I know very well. We are old friends and like to reacquaint every now and again. But Number 3...
Oh.
Oh dear.
I consumed the Whisky of Truth and sat happy in my drunken state (the whisky - Fraulinefaffensbatter - is made from the knickers of syphillis-ridden prostitutes). I decided it would be very entertaining if I attempted to form words using my mouth and communicate with My Good Lady Wife; my friend; and my friend's policewoman girlfriend.
In my moonshine-pickled brain, the Wheel of Words began to spin and came up with the following suggestions: GERMANY; NUNS; COCK; SMUGGLE. Evidentally, the Wheel of Words had also begun to spin in the brain of My Good Lady Wife, because she offered the words HORSE and ENEMA, just to make the fridge poetry of my mind more contintental in its flavour.
And so a sentence was begat. And this sentence did beget another sentence. And that other sentence did begat another. And before too long I had entertained my small circle of colleagues, and a member of the Merseyside Constabulary, with a tale of European Porn Smuggling of which, apparently, I was the hub and key-stone to the entire British Operation in a market worth millions.
Now then. The CONFESSION element of the Three Stages of Illegal Refreshment Consumption necessarily has to over-reach it's mark in order to provoke effective TRUTHS. In other words, it actually goes beyond TRUTHS, and makes you confess to a little bit more than you actually need to, just to make sure you have, in fact, included TRUTHS in your report. The only truth in my report, however, was that last week a friend had (admittedly upon my request) smuggled me a DVD back from a visit to Germany, involving some nuns and an amount of genital action. Now, in my time I have been a purveyor of the Cinema of the Wrist. I have seen things that will turn your hair white. I have enjoyed visions that would break lesser men and make them weep with an unholy sorrow. But where exactly the words HORSES and ENEMA entered the tale, I don't know. By the time of my confession to the Merseyside Constabulary, there were indeed many horses, many illegal DVDs, much spilling of bowels, and enough nuns to double the catholic population of Mexico.
It was at this moment that said member of the Merseyside Constabulary decided to call a taxi. Now. I heard the word 'taxi'. I saw her mouth it. I saw her press the buttons that summon the mystic taxis from their slumber. But my brain didn't. My brain heard 'call for back-up, I've got the lynchpin of a European porn smuggling operation, he looks dangerous and is probably carrying weapons.'
I could have dealt with this situation in many ways. I could have said 'ha ha, I'm only joking'. I could have darted out the rear exist. I could have bribed her with the chocolate brownie I'd stolen from the front desk of Heaven and Hell. I didn't. I leaned in, hugged her, and sniffed her hair, spilling my Drunkard Drool over her lovely locks whilst the Wheel of Words span and came up with 'You've got very pretty hair, is it your own? Please don't arrest me.'
Fortunately, My Good Lady Wife struck me with some violence at this point and the Sleep of the Angry Wife's Fist took over. When I awoke, My Good Lady Wife was returning her illegal refreshment to the City of Liverpool as an act of gratitude for it's unfailing help in snapping her new heels right off.
I admit I've been more than a little paranoid since the weekend's adventure. It's gone a little too quiet here now. In the distance I can hear a helicopter. And members of the German clergy keep phoning me. I need a character witness. I haven't been able to join SGUK because of my nonentityness, but I ask you, fellow SGers, colleagues, nay, Buddies of the Heart, for the sake of my liberty and freedom please produce a missive that confirms my good-natured intent. If you could include in this some articles of underwear or else digital stills of your naked farm-loving, I'd be most grateful.
Oh dear.
Not sure where I stand on the events of Saturday night. My brain tells me it all went fine and there is nothing to worry about. My stomach is saying I need to consult a liver specialist. My bum hole is recommending good lawyers.
So a bit of a mixed bag then. It started off in the worst way, with me and My Good Lady Wife heading to the Cavern to see a night of 2-Tone ska. Fabbooo! Except they weren't on. The fuckers had cancelled. The Cavern being the Cavern, of course, and the most expensive fucking bar in town, didn't put signs outside warning people of this, but instead waited for them to descend Jacob's Ladder itself so that they'd be too fucked to leave and would have to stay for a few jars.
Bastards. I hate the Cavern. People who are not from Liverpool may be surprised to hear that the Cavern made famous by the Beatles is, in fact, a car park and has been for many many years. The Cavern that is now - and I'm thinking of all the unfortunate tourists taking photos of themselves beneath the sign that reads 'John Lennon took a piss here' - has nothing to do with Beatles history. It's an expensive fuck-bucket that plays Gloria Gaynor and Phil Collins and charges 7 for two drinks.
But I digress. So, having consumed an amount of Devil Liquor, My Good Lady Wife and I made the ascension out of the pit that is the Cavern to attend, instead, a celebration of punk at the Heaven and Hell bar. I hate this place because it's shit, and because the Hell section is upstairs (some radical theological deconstruction going on there) and because it's full of middle-class 15-year olds playing at being rebels. 'You got any E mate?' Go away you silly little infant, I'm regaling My Good Lady Wife with tales of war-time heroics.
However, all credit to Heaven n Hell, they put on a good show and there were some fine bands playing. Notably The Jabs: four sexy Scandanavian chicks, playing cracking rock n roll and looking as blonde, Scandanavian and chick-like as you could hope for on a cold February evening. The crowd roared, the band played on, and the wind cried Mary.
So we leave Heaven n Hell, mildly entertained, mildly drunk and, for my part, mildly tumescent. Marvellous. On then, oh dear god, to a bar I've never heard of, and can't now remember the location, where we meet up with my friend and his girlfriend, who happens to be a member of the Merseyside Constabulary and is known for chasing down drugs lords and beating the shit out of them.
Said bar is quiet, which isn't a bad thing for a Geezer like me. Said bar is open till 3am, so we can drink and recount amusing anecdotes undisturbed. However, said bar sells no known brands of alcohol. Guinness isn't Guinness but is, instead, Lowengraftuszsdatz. Lager isn't lager but is, instead, Howglenushcafflunblaggisch. Because this type of refreshment is brewed in the garage of a man called Greg in Toxteth, it contains certain levels of alcohol and preservatives that aren't normally available off prescription or unless you're a vet.
So. After, an amount of these, I entered what the medical profession know as the Three Stages of Illegal Refreshment Consumption:
1: Hallucinations
2: Blindness
3: Confession.
Now then, the first two I know very well. We are old friends and like to reacquaint every now and again. But Number 3...
Oh.
Oh dear.
I consumed the Whisky of Truth and sat happy in my drunken state (the whisky - Fraulinefaffensbatter - is made from the knickers of syphillis-ridden prostitutes). I decided it would be very entertaining if I attempted to form words using my mouth and communicate with My Good Lady Wife; my friend; and my friend's policewoman girlfriend.
In my moonshine-pickled brain, the Wheel of Words began to spin and came up with the following suggestions: GERMANY; NUNS; COCK; SMUGGLE. Evidentally, the Wheel of Words had also begun to spin in the brain of My Good Lady Wife, because she offered the words HORSE and ENEMA, just to make the fridge poetry of my mind more contintental in its flavour.
And so a sentence was begat. And this sentence did beget another sentence. And that other sentence did begat another. And before too long I had entertained my small circle of colleagues, and a member of the Merseyside Constabulary, with a tale of European Porn Smuggling of which, apparently, I was the hub and key-stone to the entire British Operation in a market worth millions.
Now then. The CONFESSION element of the Three Stages of Illegal Refreshment Consumption necessarily has to over-reach it's mark in order to provoke effective TRUTHS. In other words, it actually goes beyond TRUTHS, and makes you confess to a little bit more than you actually need to, just to make sure you have, in fact, included TRUTHS in your report. The only truth in my report, however, was that last week a friend had (admittedly upon my request) smuggled me a DVD back from a visit to Germany, involving some nuns and an amount of genital action. Now, in my time I have been a purveyor of the Cinema of the Wrist. I have seen things that will turn your hair white. I have enjoyed visions that would break lesser men and make them weep with an unholy sorrow. But where exactly the words HORSES and ENEMA entered the tale, I don't know. By the time of my confession to the Merseyside Constabulary, there were indeed many horses, many illegal DVDs, much spilling of bowels, and enough nuns to double the catholic population of Mexico.
It was at this moment that said member of the Merseyside Constabulary decided to call a taxi. Now. I heard the word 'taxi'. I saw her mouth it. I saw her press the buttons that summon the mystic taxis from their slumber. But my brain didn't. My brain heard 'call for back-up, I've got the lynchpin of a European porn smuggling operation, he looks dangerous and is probably carrying weapons.'
I could have dealt with this situation in many ways. I could have said 'ha ha, I'm only joking'. I could have darted out the rear exist. I could have bribed her with the chocolate brownie I'd stolen from the front desk of Heaven and Hell. I didn't. I leaned in, hugged her, and sniffed her hair, spilling my Drunkard Drool over her lovely locks whilst the Wheel of Words span and came up with 'You've got very pretty hair, is it your own? Please don't arrest me.'
Fortunately, My Good Lady Wife struck me with some violence at this point and the Sleep of the Angry Wife's Fist took over. When I awoke, My Good Lady Wife was returning her illegal refreshment to the City of Liverpool as an act of gratitude for it's unfailing help in snapping her new heels right off.
I admit I've been more than a little paranoid since the weekend's adventure. It's gone a little too quiet here now. In the distance I can hear a helicopter. And members of the German clergy keep phoning me. I need a character witness. I haven't been able to join SGUK because of my nonentityness, but I ask you, fellow SGers, colleagues, nay, Buddies of the Heart, for the sake of my liberty and freedom please produce a missive that confirms my good-natured intent. If you could include in this some articles of underwear or else digital stills of your naked farm-loving, I'd be most grateful.
VIEW 23 of 23 COMMENTS
They are always using up all the toilet paper and then not putting a new role on for the next person. My geese haven't died yet (they are so useful!), but I do have to go out and give them a good beating now and then.