"I didn't meet one single person named Bruce, NOT ONE!"
So, when did we last speak? I'm fucked if I can remember anything from my Australian stint. A month of bug steaks, drunken apologies for existence to John Travolta-looking relatives and an unwritten law that insists all women under the age of 25 must be visions of Venus and women over that age must be dead ringers for Jason Voorhees without the mask. And in all my time there I didn't meet one single person named Bruce, NOT ONE! Another wasted month.
Onwards. One does feel caught in a moment of hypocrisy for fronting what will soon prove to be a shambles of a blog. Let me explain. Or don't and I will anyway. I can have my own blog and there is a very good reason for that. And that reason is as follows: I'm a hypocrite. A fellow I worked with who looked like Ann Widdecombe's ballbag once explained hypocrisy in a very ridiculous way to me via a film quote. "Would you take a blowjob?" "Yes" "Would you give a man a blowjob?" "No!" "That makes you a hypocrite" Style. May not have been one of his properties, but there it is. Hypocrisy. You're fucking welcome.
Currently awaiting the 20th of March, when myself and m'coll Don Bongo ride the bullet (or the nearest we'll ever come to a Japanese train) to London to see the prick(ly) God of Mod himself, Sir Paul Weller. Following that will be the greatest insult to road safety of 2012: yours truly, Bongo and Captain Haddock will be going on a road trip to the land of they-who-sleep-with-sheep, John O'Groats, with myself at the wheel. God help us all. I suppose this is what the well-informed Jeeves figures of the world call 'fore-fucking-shadowing'. A promise of sorts that this whole caper is leading to something (No promise valid.)
In a bit.
(It's been recently brought up that my Australia journal from 08-09 isn't around anymore, so I'm going to repost it bit by bit. You lucky bastards)
Thursday 11th December 2008
OK I lied it's 1 in the morning on Friday. Deal with it.
As per, on MSN to all hours. My name still has "Australia tomorrow" in it cause I'm a freak like that. Eleven people are online, ten generic. My late nighter Angie is on, and is having every word I write put back to her. Nicotine gum should be sold to queers. Good thing I only paid for it. Won't need Nytol tonight thanks to Catboy. Diaries are not my thing, at all. These pages are already too small, how do those people do it nightly? Before I become more ashamed of myself, I'm ending it here. Might get used to it.
"Guess I'm Outta Time"