Gather round everyone - I'd like you to meet Svetlana, my new internet bride. I'm plucking her from a life of drudgery on an Estonian pig farm and bringing her to England to be my wife. We're very much in love. Not shown in picture: her wooden leg.
Sunday 30 September 2007
Pic of the Week.
Gather round everyone - I'd like you to meet Svetlana, my new internet bride. I'm plucking her from a life of drudgery on an Estonian pig farm and bringing her to England to be my wife. We're very much in love. Not shown in picture: her wooden leg.
Why I left Stourbridge in the first place, part 1.
Here's a typical night out on the town in Stourbridge. First, drink quickly and heavily in a near-deserted old man-style boozer. Eat your own body weight in pork scratchings whilst playing pool, badly. Do this until around 10:30, when your itchy feet will lead you out in search of some dancing. Pick one of the half dozen or so pubs that have a dance floor and a late licence; any one, doesn't matter which. Queue for a while and then have this conversation:
You: All right, mate?
Bouncer: Not tonight lads. You're too casual.
You: Oh, go on. We'll be no trouble. We only want a drink and a bit of a dance.
Bouncer: No, you're too casual. Now piss off.
Repeat until you've been turned away from everywhere, then go home. I wouldn't mind but it's not like we're talking about classy, urbane, sophisticated nightspots here; we're talking about horrific puke-reeking drinking pits that play shit music to pissed morons in a doomed midlands town. It's not like the sight of me dancing like a harmless twat in a 2000AD t shirt is going to spoil the carefully constructed ambiance. 'Sorry pal, you can't come in. We've heard a rumour that Brad and Angelina might be stopping by and if they see the likes of you in here they'll shit.' Not going to happen, is it? But just because they've pushed some of the chairs to the sides to make a dance floor and employed a sub-standard DJ they act like they're fucking Fabric or something.
So every thick-necked mouth breathing fucktard in town is inside, knocking back Stellas and surreptitiously fingering desperate 30-something divorcees in the beer garden, while nice guys like me and Phil are left out in the cold. Where's the justice?
Bastards!
You: All right, mate?
Bouncer: Not tonight lads. You're too casual.
You: Oh, go on. We'll be no trouble. We only want a drink and a bit of a dance.
Bouncer: No, you're too casual. Now piss off.
Repeat until you've been turned away from everywhere, then go home. I wouldn't mind but it's not like we're talking about classy, urbane, sophisticated nightspots here; we're talking about horrific puke-reeking drinking pits that play shit music to pissed morons in a doomed midlands town. It's not like the sight of me dancing like a harmless twat in a 2000AD t shirt is going to spoil the carefully constructed ambiance. 'Sorry pal, you can't come in. We've heard a rumour that Brad and Angelina might be stopping by and if they see the likes of you in here they'll shit.' Not going to happen, is it? But just because they've pushed some of the chairs to the sides to make a dance floor and employed a sub-standard DJ they act like they're fucking Fabric or something.
So every thick-necked mouth breathing fucktard in town is inside, knocking back Stellas and surreptitiously fingering desperate 30-something divorcees in the beer garden, while nice guys like me and Phil are left out in the cold. Where's the justice?
Bastards!
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