Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha awoogah
Evening Fun
Well, we were going to an internet pop-up millionaire's birthday party in Covent Garden tonight.
Instead, my flatmates and I flopped on the sofas and watched series two and three of Peep Show. It sucked us in and didn't let us go until it finished every last episode. I had to walk to Tesco Express and buy a can of Red Bull and some Summer Fruits cordial to clear my head. I also feel as if it has given me license to amplify already bad thoughts about everything into horribly nasty and black matter liable to turn everything to cancer with a merest touch.
No, not really. I hate everything with a kind of lovely free joy. Hurrah for hate. It gives me peace.
No, that isn't right. I love everything. Absolutely everything. I especially love Paco Rabanne's Black XS which I sprayed all over myself at House of Fraser because I thought it was what Cherry Coca-Cola would smell like if it was in an eau de toilette. Yes, I am happy I didn't buy that pink Ted Baker shirt. £65! Perhaps, I didn't love it enough when I should have. It had pretty patterns on the nipple areas.
It's aural purification that I need. I am now listening to Sigur Ros in order to cleanse my soul and my aura and all the fluffy psychic bits. Ah, children that can fly off cliffs. Lovely.
Even more hilarious
Oh, quiz stuff.
Brewis texted me late this afternoon: "Who is this James Lucy then?" and "Just saw WWTBAM, but didn't know him".
I was wandering around Selfridges trying to find a decent t-shirt. Miles and miles of clothes yet nothing to wear. I tell you.
Obviously, the penny dropped. My debut PAF cameo had been and gone without me hearing it.
I always do this. Miss my TV appearances that is. You could say that I hate the way how my voice makes me sound like a retarded public school French teacher and that I deliberately did not look at the TV guide for today and decided to run away and into the seething shopping mass of Londoness. And you might be right.
And if it was my face appearing on television then I would have gone scuba diving in Cornwall at that exact moment in order to make sure I refused myself any opportunity to glance at my silly grinning visage (grinning because the production staff would be holding some kind of automatic rifle to the back of my head to make me wince in some kind of apparent happiness) on a TV screen. And I would say bingo! Bang to rights. Seeing and hearing myself on television makes me want to turn inside out and then implode in an explosion of bloody guts and embarrassment.
However, there is a repeat next Saturday afternoon. I'll probably miss that too. Must be consistent, if nothing else.
(Nah, I'll watch it then and analyse it in depth. Just like you want me to.)
(And I did buy a t-shirt. It has the logo: drug free. Which is so true if you know me. I thought getting a t-shirt would make this obvious to strangers too.)
Well, we were going to an internet pop-up millionaire's birthday party in Covent Garden tonight.
Instead, my flatmates and I flopped on the sofas and watched series two and three of Peep Show. It sucked us in and didn't let us go until it finished every last episode. I had to walk to Tesco Express and buy a can of Red Bull and some Summer Fruits cordial to clear my head. I also feel as if it has given me license to amplify already bad thoughts about everything into horribly nasty and black matter liable to turn everything to cancer with a merest touch.
No, not really. I hate everything with a kind of lovely free joy. Hurrah for hate. It gives me peace.
No, that isn't right. I love everything. Absolutely everything. I especially love Paco Rabanne's Black XS which I sprayed all over myself at House of Fraser because I thought it was what Cherry Coca-Cola would smell like if it was in an eau de toilette. Yes, I am happy I didn't buy that pink Ted Baker shirt. £65! Perhaps, I didn't love it enough when I should have. It had pretty patterns on the nipple areas.
It's aural purification that I need. I am now listening to Sigur Ros in order to cleanse my soul and my aura and all the fluffy psychic bits. Ah, children that can fly off cliffs. Lovely.
Even more hilarious
Oh, quiz stuff.
Brewis texted me late this afternoon: "Who is this James Lucy then?" and "Just saw WWTBAM, but didn't know him".
I was wandering around Selfridges trying to find a decent t-shirt. Miles and miles of clothes yet nothing to wear. I tell you.
Obviously, the penny dropped. My debut PAF cameo had been and gone without me hearing it.
I always do this. Miss my TV appearances that is. You could say that I hate the way how my voice makes me sound like a retarded public school French teacher and that I deliberately did not look at the TV guide for today and decided to run away and into the seething shopping mass of Londoness. And you might be right.
And if it was my face appearing on television then I would have gone scuba diving in Cornwall at that exact moment in order to make sure I refused myself any opportunity to glance at my silly grinning visage (grinning because the production staff would be holding some kind of automatic rifle to the back of my head to make me wince in some kind of apparent happiness) on a TV screen. And I would say bingo! Bang to rights. Seeing and hearing myself on television makes me want to turn inside out and then implode in an explosion of bloody guts and embarrassment.
However, there is a repeat next Saturday afternoon. I'll probably miss that too. Must be consistent, if nothing else.
(Nah, I'll watch it then and analyse it in depth. Just like you want me to.)
(And I did buy a t-shirt. It has the logo: drug free. Which is so true if you know me. I thought getting a t-shirt would make this obvious to strangers too.)
posted by That Quiz Guy at 4:32 PM
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