To hell in a milk float

Guess who may be getting a two litre Ford Focus Ghia? Yes, it is a car fit for a prince, or a king, or a middle class, single child family, but are they getting it? Nope! You were right first time, dear reader! It's me! Noodlemobile #2 (NMB #1 being a rusted out 1200cc Escort - complete with bonnet duct-taped to the chassis and exhaust manifold made from something resembling the remains of Apollo 13 - I never set foot to pedal in and will never speak of again.) will most probably be arriving sometime in November, courtesy of some loaded relatives of mine. But in some ironic twist of fate, I probably won't be able to afford road fund, insurance or running costs of the flaming thing (whoever heard of a two litre two-door hatchback? Bloody nobody, 'cept possibly the American motor industry) so the upshot'll probably be my dad collaring the Focus Ghia and me getting a handed-down N-reg Renault 19, of all unpalatable possibilities! Ah well - a car is still a car, except when it decides to be a be-wheeled fireball with me inside it.

 

 

Anyways, now we've got the important bit out of the way, Rosie has demanded a post about herself, deciding just what's needed to try and revive a dying blog is a post that's only relevant to two people in the entire universe, and when have I ever been one to stand up to egotism almost as big as my own?

 

Rosie, for those of you who haven't had the pleasure of meeting her, is about five feet tall, one foot wide and eight inches deep. She's great fun to flirt with, even more fun to fight with, not so fun to depend on for navigational purposes, and terribly terribly fun to be close to, emotionally, physically, spiritually, alphabetically. Her hair is the colour you'd expect stealth bombers to be, her skin is the colour you get if you mix Strawberry Angel Delight with Wallpaper Paste, but has a smoother textrue and a more pleasant taste, and for the life of me I can't remember what colour her eyes are.

She's a shameless corporate sellout, a monkey-wrench-toting football hooligan when it comes to romance, a brick wall when it comes to football or DIY, an angel in human form before she applies makeup and a cross between a goth and a clown after she applies it. The quickest way to her heart is the subject of international speculation, and the discoverer will probably score a Nobel prize. The quickest way to her bed was demolished by the planning comission in 1987 in order to make way for a bypass to her sence of moral decency. Her outlook on life can only be described by the phrase "Silence of the Lambs", and most people's opinion of her would include the word "Lovable".

If she was a song she'd be "Can't Stand Losing You" by the Police, if she was a film she'd be every single one ever made by any two-bit film company anywhere in the world, and if she was any shorter she probably wouldn't exist.

 

Jesus, that should be her obituary, shouldn't it?

 

 

 

 

 

Ant, I seem to be branching out into bloging on request! When did I lose my soul?

Shan, "chaps" can be female, too! And I'm really getting into the idea of this whole lifestyle you've planned out for me! I really want a kilt and a million sheep and a beautiful Scots farm maiden and a nice solid rock and Haggis everyday and a set of bagpipes! But - could you make the beautiful Scots farm maiden a little less prone to hacking sheep about, at least while I'm trying to herd them with me bagpipes, okay? Cheers.

Oh, and didja see CSI: Miami the other day? Somebody shot a horse! Tee hee!

Sara, you, too! Why does everyone think "chaps" are just male? I'm sure I'm right! Or am I? I'm starting to doubt myself, now! See what you've done?!

Maybe the reason we don't have good legs is that we don't wear skirts kilts enough. I'm sure we could evolve good legs, with a bit of practice...

Behind the times? Our school's gone too far the other way! We've got flaming thumbprint-scanning machines insead of registration now! Only they don't seem to work and nobody knows why!

Biscuit, that may pose a bit of a problem, actually - just how are thirty-year-olds, say, supposed to fit thirty hours' snoozing in per day? It calls for a new system - You don't have to get up at any hour less than your age minus your average hourly income. That would protect toddlers, who tend as a class to have a fairly low earning power, from having to get up too early, and would prevent the likes of the Queen lying around for the rest of the flaming century.

Do any of youse ken how to solve five "a" times eight "b" divided by nine "c" plus three "d" minus "e"?

Thought not.

...

Well, back at school, and everyone over the age of about twenty is going "Wahey! Off you go, you little sods! The world is ours again!" Of course, it makes little or no difference anyway, seeing as most of the grubby little objectionable children tend to spend a fair portion of most school terms outside of the school anyway.

I haven't had time to be reading or writing blogs recently, though, becaus my body clock has been thrown by the twin problems of having to get up for school (seriously. It gets harder every year. They should make some sort of rule whereby you don't have to be awake at any hour less than your age.) and of having bought a watch that doesn't actually tell you the time. Oh yes. The vindictive little sod has already made me miss about a billion episodes of CSI (it's pretty much the only  thing I watch nowadays! They're so much better than your Morses and your Frosts and so on! If you ever want to commit murder, rape, kidnap or any combination of the three, don't do it in America!)

Oh, and I passed a driving test a, while ago, too. Not that that means I can drive, of course. I had to sell my car because I couldn't afford the insurance! I wish I flaming lived in the ninteen-hundreds. What I plan to do is try and buy a cheap lucky-to-do-thirty-without-catching-fire bike, somewhere around the two or three hundred sovs mark, which with any luck will have much lower running costs. Any advice appreciated, chaps.

Next week heralds the return of the let's-put-another-kid-through-some-posh-London-university Mancunians, although thankfully they aren't going to stay. It's almost as bad, though - massive family do with extra Northern relatives. Have you ever heard of a less pleasant event than that? The Vietnam War came close, but at least they got paid to take part in that. And when I say massive, I mean it. The number of Northerners which feel the need to travel south because of this one girl's university placement is probably large enough to cause the whole bloody country to tilt. Which'll give everyone in John O'Groats alktitude sickness and everyone in Bournemouth a free bath. But won't solve my problem. Ah well, at least it's only one evening. Sir Bernard Lovell had to live there.

I've done nothing but talk about myself, have I? This blog is getting far too Elton-John-esque for it's own good. You'd think after such alot of deliberate laziness I could at least have thought of something interesting to say, wouldntcha? Something other than another installment of me talking about me next time, I promise!

Old Mc Mullet, (How's the Farm, by the way? ..Christ, that was terrible.) I was talking to someone about the good old Alice band recently, and happened to come out with a hugely witty and entertaining monologue about it, which I've just spent the last ten minutes trying to remember.

Laura, you don't have a passport? Why? Seriously, get one! You're going off to live at the South Coast! It costs like five pounds to get to France and back! You especially should get one, seeing as you smoke! Of course I love Rosie, but not like that! Why does everyone assume that just because people argue, they want to have it off with each other? I blame that "Shrek" film..

Rosie, oooh, I am sorry! Getting the name of the coorporation who manufactured your mobile phone wrong, how could I?
Na-ah, Motorhead was formed purely because the lead singer got caught by the Mounties trying to get speed into an office! How much less corporate couldja get? And how about unsigned bands, eh? How many "manufactured" unsignies are there?

Biscuit, short. Sweet. True. What more could I ask for?

Laura, cheese is merely a highly evolved form of milk. You don't clearly hate it. You fear it.

Rosie, black, you savage! It's not some sort of neo-hippie felt thing! It's a proper traditional Frenchman's beret!

Sara, you get better crepes in England!
What are you talking about! I've seen people in kilts in Scotland, that doesn't mean the Scotch wear 'em regularly! How many berets didja see? One? It may well have been me!
Oh lord! That's what I should get! A kilt! Talk about inspiration!

Shan, no, rice cakes and nutella are only eaten together by loonies! But more power to you! Snails and chicken hearts! A fellow experimenter! But where you'd break down is when confronted with a nice large plate of Dead Horse!

Ant, oh, you'll see it all right! Eventually! Everyone in the world will, if I gets me way!

Shan and Sara, that's it, don't mind me, just chat away!