For ease of reading, Im adding the "Pointy bracket" HR "pointy bracket going the other way" in between the little bits of half-story that Im telling you, just so you don�t get totally confused.
Im not quite sure why I started the 'we wentt o Newcastle for Jimi's birthday' story halfway through (ie AFTER the car broke down, somewhere in Yorkshire), but here it is anyway:
The boys 'started the weekend off' with several pints of Becks while I sipped a diet coke in a sullen fashion. By the time the RAC man turned up, they were 'jovial' and keen to help, which mostly involved getting in the way and poking at various bits of the engine in an incompetent fashion.
Anyways, it was the throttle cable. Now, without getting too technical on your arses, I can say it was 'a bit fucked' and looked like the kind of frayed rope you might get in a cartoon, maybe with Scooby Doo on one end and Shaggy on the other � with one saving the other from an untimely death over some unlikely looking precipice.
He fixed it pretty quick (not Shaggy, the RAC man), despite L and BDB's help and we were pretty soon back on the road. Inevitably got lost just as we got into Newcastle, due to paying too much attention to a couple of hundred quid's worth of SatNav instead of relying on good sense and the directions that the hotel guy had given me over the phone. As L and BDB were 'helping' rather too much by this point, Swivelling around in their sets, pointing in opposite directions, yelling "back there! Its back there!" and calling out other bloody useless suggestions in that authoritative way that people do when they have had a few pints and need to have a wee quite soon and need to get the process of 'finding the hotel' over with as quickly as possible, it wasn�t long before I just pulled over to the side of the road and told L to get out.
Before you start thinking that was a bit harsh, let me explain that I know L. I know when he needs a wee. And I know how long he can manage to NOT have a wee when he needs a wee. And it isn�t long. He scampered off in search of relief. As I had stopped the car next to a multi-storey car park I can only hope that he didn�t decide to do that *stairs thing* which makes multistoreys so unpleasant to use on Sunday mornings after hordes of drunken ne'er do wells have tried to do a full 'Two Flighter' on the way home from Barbarella's (says she, showing her age).
While he was gone I switched off the Satnav. When he got back in the car I swung out into the road before he could say "How will we find our way without a sophisticated global positioning service" and had found the hotel in about two minutes. The boys think this was a mixture of fluke and some kind of ESP. Its actually because I had a look around while L was taking a leak and realised I recognised the street names from the instructions I'd got over the phone.
The hotel was clean and reasonably comfortable and that�s all I can say about it. When we got to the nightclub, Jimi was already pretty 'celebratory' and by half past ten he had collapsed onto the floor with the effort of trying to hear what someone was saying to him. Note to self: remember that 'leaning in' becomes 'falling over' at around 45 degrees off the vertical.
When I got home, there was an invitation to attend the local hospital for a colonoscopy. I cried. I said "I cant possibly need another one, I only had one a little while ago. It was when Steve Irwin died". But we couldn�t agree on how long ago that was so I had to get on the net and have a look. Im not sure what it says about me that I have to Google 'dead adventurers' to find out when I last had a camera shoved up my arse.
It was HERE and HERE and HERE if you want to read all about it. YUK. I am sulking. Expect multitudinous whining diary entries about it as it inches ever closer to Sept 8th. Meh.
Irrefutable truths: Music videos are made immeasurably cooler by the addition of a crowd scene in which everyone suddenly breaks into a dance routine (especially if the camera stays on the crowd long enough, and the routine is simple enough, for the steps to be learned by me and my mates for later rehashing in drunken performance at a party). Oh and a classic rock song MUST have a cow bell in it (Alright Now, Sympathy for the Devil etc etc etc).
Treacle (reading from jar): "Natural Honey"
Me: "As opposed to 'unnatural' honey, I suppose?"
Treacle: Hmm. Or Supernatural honey. (in 'movie trailer' voice) Honey of the Living Dead.
Me: BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAA
I bought some new jeans. It was all a bit confusing. Jeans used to come in "Jeans" or �umm�well, that was about it.
In the 70's jeans came in "Flares" or "Brown Flares".
Then in the 80's, jeans came in "Jeans" (which now seem to be called 'skinnies') or "Bleached Jeans". Both options had 11" bottoms and necessitated one being able to stand 'en pointe' to get ones feet in them. The best way to pull them up was to get them as far as the knee and then to graps them firmly by the belt loops and jump repeatedly up and down in the manner of a Masai warrior, hoping that the conbined forces of 'upward yank' and gravitational pull on ones body would gradually inch them up your thighs and over you bum.
Either way, the trickiest bit about buying them was finding space in Chelsea Girl changing room to lie down. Then, you heaved and sweated until you got the button done up, and then hooked the hook of the coat hanger that they came on, through the teeny hole in the top of the zipper tag, and used the hanger as extra leverage to gradually inch the zip up, sometimes with the help of a friend who would stand over your prone form, bend forward and grasp the hanger in a sort of ersatz 69 position, yanking with all her might and yelling helpful advice to you (and anyone else who might be in the shop at the time) like, "Suck your gut in, they're nearly up!" or " Smooth your knickers out, if I catch your pubes you'll never get these fuckers off again!"
Once they were on, all you needed to do was have your friend haul you upright (you wouldn�t be able to bend your legs AT ALL by this point � Lycra was in its infancy and jeans were RIGID, my friends!) and admire yourself in the mirror. Then, out of pride, mostly, you'd say "Actually, I think these are a bit baggy, I might see if they've got a 26". If you have ever skinned an eel, you'll be well aware of the process of getting the damn things off again (complete with standing on the surplus material with one foot while you tried to yank the other leg out).
Nowadays there's so many different styles and colours and cuts that its just a big denim maelstrom of bewilderment. Oh, the horror. It's almost as bad as shopping for swimsuits! Luckily for me, I was shopping by price, not by what might actually suit me � riffling up and down the rows until I found a pair reduced to �7. Just my sort of jeans. They are blue. I find that�s quite a good colour for jeans. There's a huge pillowcase sized slab of cloth sewn into the back of them which announces (in swirly letters) the size and the cut. Apparently, they're "Skinny Flares". This appears to mean that they are so tight around the leg that I cannot bend at the knee�.but if I could, I'd be able to get my boots on. They look pretty much OK�although, looking in the mirror this morning, I couldn�t help but wonder if�.maybe I should've got the 26s.
We still have no bathroom. I have begun to dream wistfully of Radox. It got so bad I even went to MY MOTHER's for a shower.
Proper entry soon. Promise.