I liked it early on when she was just playing songs from her iPod. It was very 80s but I could just about stand it. And I cheerfully genrally hate the 80s with no apologys y'all.
Reasons why: all og it kthxbye.
Og ya. Believe it.
Some guy lived up the road. Whatever. I used to live up the road. Well done.
I'm not like that. I am initially chummy, but then I'll lose your interest and you'll walk away. Is that some kind of achievement, merely living up the road? I used to live up the road too. Give me a medal.
Obv I don't SAY these kinds of things, but maybe the mere thinking of them transmits.
Later, some guy decided to be the DJ replacing the iPod (a mistake). Every **** these ******** days is DJ, even me, next year.
The lady of the house had fabulous teeth with a grin as always to go with. Her best friend, as we always have to mention, is ********* ***************' daughter. Everyone has to be terribly excited by this.
Clogger, as he was known, used to say in exaggerated fashion: "Wow, you're so cynical. How you must have lived." Not just to me, you understand. It was his schtick, having spent some years in Tanzania doing good.
And then I want to be buried in the orange wall by the reiteration of this mere fact and then I realise that I hate everybody and everything and I am a social cripple, but not really because I do talk to people some of them human beings also though it's hard to say.
Can I have a pizza for 9.00 in the morning thanks.
Then Naomi (not her real name) turned up and I was quite excited bcs this other girl said earlier that she was coming and I hadn't seen her in three years and we used to be very close (or at least I thought so). So Naomi arrived, resplendent in white let's say chiffon. She was all bridal Christmas caked up; slim, tanned and hair flowing. We embrace and circled, then she positioned herself at a considerable distance.
Anyway earlier when I left, they were saying on the radio "Ha ha, Austria are a pub team!" And then they scored two goals in a minute and we was scuppered. Honestly I would do a better job. I need to have a word with Sven.
My typing is atrocity right now, this is taking about 3 hrs per 12 words to typer. You thankd Cod for spellcjckers, rfight. Poor . bCarron on. Ho hu. Notr sopfunny.
I consulted with the hostess about the iPod playlist. It sounded surprisingly good, plugged into the big amplifiers. A-Ha was followed by Grease was followed by Pot Black was followed by the B-52s. You know, kind of 80s, okay but then someone's boyfriend took over.
She's heading off to China and not for travelling fun, a real job.
Someone's boyfriend decided we needed some jazz soundtrack music unknown to anyone. For a very long time. And you know at times like this, someone's boyfriend wants shooting. And I go: Y'see, (sucking on a thoughtful non-existent pipe), I would never play anything like this. I would give you what you want however much it may hurt me.
Naomi swept over for a chat. More of an update actually. More of a "what have you added to your CV - resume - since I last saw you?" discussion. I gazed into her sparkling eyes her taut and let's face it succulent tight skin not to mention her too-big nose (hands up, a mild turn-on) and also while we're at it, the glittery cheek.
Let us not play down the allure of the glittery cheek, however acquired.
Her estuary accent toned down several degrees. And what's with this inquisitiveness and unrelenting JOB TALK. No job talk, no work talk, I think.
I'm disappointed. It's a social visit, a gathering of information.
You'd be different - you'd force some other topic upon me. Other than mere commerce.
Return to Naomi: but that's how we know each other. Through the prism of work/ jobs. Gaaahh.
So you - some say *I* - am stupid for thinking we have any other level of communication.
I used to be her boss, allegedly. Perhaps that's something to do with it.
This other girl kept mentioning it. They all have such nebulous boyfriends, this is what I'm sticking my neck out and saying. They're barely there.
- What do you do?
- Where do you live?
I refuse to engage in all that. Unfortunately, it leaves you like a retard because it is common currency.
And I am such a gaping prawn that I have to ask around when this nagging tune plays on the random iPod play. It turns out to be the theme tune from the Rugby Special which I vaguely recognise even though I am a confirmed rugby hater. (Earlier there was, delightfully, the Pot Black theme whereupon I refrained from delivering an impomptu lecture referencing Winifred Attwell, "mash-up" culture and Eminem because I am some sort of **** but only thanks to YOU LOT, it wouldn't show on the outside.)
Wah-wah-wah-wah-waaah, wah-wah-wah-wah-wah-wah-waaahhhh. You know it.
I hate rugby with a purity which golf will never know. I was accidentally very good as a fly half and got picked for the school team and then, shamefully, deliberately played badly so I wouldn't get picked for the team again and have to be one of the rugby boys. I've heard that the ladies fancy the beefcake rugby boys like crazy whatever they say to the contrary, but never mind that right now. I went on the coach to a game once and they sang all those rude songs. It was desperately confusing and I was only 14. We slaughtered Wimbledon 52-4 and I scored some tries and I hated every second. It was the ENEMY'S game, ok thanks I think you've made your point.
The Bangles played and we swapped some amusing anecdotes.
Blondie played and I told a rather good joke.
Urrh, then I talked with some guy and some girl I once knew but couldn't care less about now. And I recall a small gesture of kindness she once made (and of which I am certain she has no memory). And how that's not enough on which to base an everlasting friendship, which would appear to be a valuable thing right now.
Commodity.
The vagueness of allegiances troubles me.
We know how to give ourselves every day...
DJ-boy was hit and miss. Fair play to him, he seemed to think that Voodoo Chile was going to be a dancefloor winner.
And after that, it all changed.
Jacqui (not her real name whose event it was) and her cronies turn out to be country folk and DJ-boy soon cranks up the Wurzels. Not just one song, but a whole fucking sequence of them and this gets them dancing, where Beyonce and Robbie and Kylie and even Jimi Hendrix have failed.
So in no time they're all on the floor, elbows akimbo and jerking about to the bleeding Wurzels who must still be massive in The Country because us Urban Folk haven't heard from them in 30 years.
Even so, I should really be at Joe's (not his real name) tonight. At least I was invited there as a primary not secondary participant (two options on a Saturday night, these are indeed remarkable days). But he lives much further away and I'd have to go on my own and listen to him play with his band.
Me and my companion invented an internet dating agency based on the 16 Myers-Briggs test types. It's a modern version of What Star Sign Are You? Ooh, you're a 'Supervisor' we need to match you up with a 'Performer' - that sort of thing. Make a fortune we thought, clean up using all those personality type tests. Pub talk.
Don't tell me that it's already been done.
PS. I'm a "Resolver" or if I do a different test, a "Top Gun" stroke "Virtuoso", if you know what any of that is supposed to mean, although I don't want to be defined as anything, but what can you do.
The only consistent (adolescent) thought I get is: this is the wrong world I'm in. And another one, later, maybe there are three four five other people in here thinking the same thing. And how would that improve things.
Boooo-ring.
[Note to self - delete this in the moooor-ning.]