How Many Days?
It is (as ever) some years ago. I work for a weekly newspaper.
I am 'out the back' smoking a cigarette.
There is a large brick wall opposite the back door of the building. Upon it, somebody has utilised a can of spray-paint to create the legend 'Johnny Sucks Cock for Rock'.
To accompany this is a portrait of a gentleman with his mouth wide open (I assume this to be 'Johnny') whilst one foot away an unrealistically large penis ejaculates several droplets of what I assume to be sperm directly into 'Johnny's mouth. Not a drop goes astray. Million-to-one.
If I were 'Johnny' I would be fucking furious.
I am contemplating this when Hippy Journalist comes out to join me.
[Not entirely fair. It should be noted that when Hippy Journalist was dumped by Hippy Girlfriend, he promptly had a numer-one-all-over-buzz-cut and started eating meat and could no longer give a fuck about 'the planet' or, indeed, 'peace'. If ever he did. Whatever it takes, I say.]
Hippy Journalist lights hand-rolled and suspiciously fragrant cigarette.
HJ:[By way of 'hello'] I've not been to the toilet in four days.
Me: .................
HJ: Don't get me wrong. I've had a wee, but..............
Me: ..................................
I put out my cigarette and went back to work.
Some months later, we actually became quite good friends. Once all the intimate talk had died off. Christ. We're not women for God's sake.
Next: Enchanted Dad. (Suffice to say, it's not about me.)
I am 'out the back' smoking a cigarette.
There is a large brick wall opposite the back door of the building. Upon it, somebody has utilised a can of spray-paint to create the legend 'Johnny Sucks Cock for Rock'.
To accompany this is a portrait of a gentleman with his mouth wide open (I assume this to be 'Johnny') whilst one foot away an unrealistically large penis ejaculates several droplets of what I assume to be sperm directly into 'Johnny's mouth. Not a drop goes astray. Million-to-one.
If I were 'Johnny' I would be fucking furious.
I am contemplating this when Hippy Journalist comes out to join me.
[Not entirely fair. It should be noted that when Hippy Journalist was dumped by Hippy Girlfriend, he promptly had a numer-one-all-over-buzz-cut and started eating meat and could no longer give a fuck about 'the planet' or, indeed, 'peace'. If ever he did. Whatever it takes, I say.]
Hippy Journalist lights hand-rolled and suspiciously fragrant cigarette.
HJ:[By way of 'hello'] I've not been to the toilet in four days.
Me: .................
HJ: Don't get me wrong. I've had a wee, but..............
Me: ..................................
I put out my cigarette and went back to work.
Some months later, we actually became quite good friends. Once all the intimate talk had died off. Christ. We're not women for God's sake.
Next: Enchanted Dad. (Suffice to say, it's not about me.)
posted by Tired Dad at
1:27 am
8 Comments:
'I've not been to the toilet in four days' is the best opening ice-breaker remark I've heard in years. I'm going to use it on the Queen when I attend her garden party next month. Much better than 'Aren't you an ugly cow close up,' which I was going to use.
Hippies, eh? They've got a turn of phrase for every occasion.
No, not as good as me sister's "my garden wall is four feet high" ~ which gets rid of anyone that ent worth talkin to. Next time someone keeps bangin on and you can't get word in edgeways, just slap it right int middle. You get a stunned silence, then you can tell em to fuck off and die. It's worked fer me int pub, no trouble. That or me big sister's secret weapon phrase: "What about stamp duty?"
p.s. I'm a pleasant-sounding-woman. Honest! Ask anyone....
Razz Person: Welcome. I have a small problem with nextdoors' dog. Can you help.
*: Unbearable people. This one was OK though. Once dumped became alpha-male type and started having fights and that. Very odd.
Soup: I'll give it a try. And I'm sure you are.
Poor Sod Night Desk Guy: Hadn't thought about that. And now I cannot stop. Curse you.
G-H: That's good then.
I do quite enjoy reading this blog now. When it comes, the bile is like a murderous flash flood, but there are some curiously salient musings in there.
Mr. Glide: Thanks. But Oh Dear. You shall have to brace yourself.
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