16/2/09. Castro.

Sorry, sorry, sorry about the title... but last night I'm sitting all on me lonesome in Ottoschop, and around the nine-ish mark two lovelies bowl in and order a 2.5 litre tower-jug of Kunstmann. They're already tight-ish from an afternoon at the cider festival, and - heavens be praised - one of 'em beckons. I come at a running crouch, panting like a happy, soppy puppy. Anyway, the "blonde" one (it's actually quite tricky to dye jet-black hair blonde) to whom I have no option but to refer as H2, gets all silly, which is great because I'm already quite silly, and a while later there's lovely, lovely kissing in the car park. Nnnngghh.
(I toyed with the idea of calling this bit "Fiddle Castro" so think y'self lucky.)

So, as I write;
1. Arsenal are 2-0 up;
2. My new tenants are moving in tomorrow;
3. I've just got an email from C, telling me to meet her in her mum's pub in Valdivia, for, I suspect, more kissing;
4. I'm in a pub.
I am a Golden God! Kneel before me and tremble, lest I smite you! Cos if I smite you, you'll know you've been smoten to.

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My personal Arsenal results text-message service - Geoff from Champs in Ghana - tells me it's 4-0 Arsenal at full time. So yeah, it was "only" Cardiff, but get this - a year ago, Eduardo, our new golden boy, had his ankle smashed in the most sickening, career-ending fashion. Today was his first day back at work. He scored twice. There is a God. OK - there isn't, but you get what I mean, isn't it.
If you're reading this Geoff, mines a Star! And gerruz a packet of 555's while you're up there!
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What's the worst song in the world? I invite your suggestions, but I'm going to tell you what it is anyway. It's Dire Straits' "Walk Of Life".

-It sucks the final, gritty dump out of a roadkill hedgehog's flattened ringpiece.
-It smears itself in its own hot waste and runs up and down Guildford high street shouting "Look at me! I am a total, total cunt!"
-It is Hitler, naked, aroused, and waiting for you in bed.
-It is a plate of fried aubergines (shudder) drizzled in seal piss.
-It can, quite literally, fuck off and die, today, tomorrow, next week.
-It is the most helpless, love-starved masturbator in Christendom.
-It is the Dalek in the bathroom.
-It is the moment in 1789 when you realize you're looking up from a gore-soaked basket in Paris at your own squirting neck.
-It is closing time on Sunday night, and Monday morning's bleeping sod of an alarm clock, squashed into three asinine minutes.
-It is Glen Quagmire rummaging around in your new girlfriend.
-It is fried bastards with grated carrot.
-It is a cheque for £0.00 from British Gas, stapled to a bill for £872.25.
-It is five years of nun glares.

It is on every jukebox in every pub in every country in the world, and you will never, ever, be free of it.

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