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Showing posts from December, 2003
Booyakka. This season of merriment is already beginning to take a noticeable toll on this intrepid Doctor’s constitution. It started about a week ago, in earnest, and apart from the odd night of restrained alcoholic indulgence, it has not stopped since. A few examples of the detrimental effects. On Saturday afternoon, after a Friday night of lager, wine and cava and passionate/drunken love making with a large lady of considerable means, a few hours sleep, a plate of Dr Bruce’s Speciality Scrambled Eggs, it was off to Ivyleaf for a leisurely nine-hole knockabout with a good chum. A means of restoring one’s internal homeostasis before the unavoidable evening’s onslaught of prawn curry and cold lager with honoured invited guests. Now, we must all bear in mind that, unlike many other undertakings, I have never failed to finish a round of golf. Never, despite hailstorms, gale force coastal winds and playing like a fucking muppet. Until last Saturday. The eggs were giving notice of a sudden
Well, goddam it, due to unforeseen logistical problems, I found myself taking the day off. Which was nice, after the weekend of hockey, late nights, excessive inebriation and being attacked by a good mate, who obviously has a strand of lunacy running through his genetic ladder. Having barely survived all that, it was a pleasure to be able to return to bed, fleeing the testicle freezing morning, and watch flipped out Jap movies. However, I failed to remember that Cris was supposed to be filling in some more of me tat tomorrow, a day which will now find me employed. Drattage! I want the fucker finished so that I can decide if I want it extended over the ankle and under the foot. It just started itching a little today, especially just below the knee. That Kamolisan cream (for sore nipples and baby’s bottom rash – and now for tats) is the shit. Better than prep H and Savlon. The scab is not hardening up and just brushes off – hopefully taking no more than just the overfill of ink under my
|Instead of that obviously pre-prepared dribble at the airport about the last weekend that you were down making me forget that I am over you, what I really wanted to say was,”Gemma, FUCK OFF!” I didn’t keep it to my original three words for several reasons, the most prominent of which was that there was a large chance that you may have taken such an outburst the wrong way and kneed me one right in the balls. “Well, how should I have taken it?” is a fair question and I will tell you how. There is no way I could ever want to stop being friends with you, you are far too exceedingly cool and entertaining for that to ever even be a consideration, but as you pointed out on numerous occasions and I eventually realised, that is all you have ever and will ever see me as. A friend. Which is great, although admittedly I did not feel that way at first. It took awhile, a few years, the odd tear and probably about eighty barrels of beer but I had come round to the idea and this meant I could be
Thoughts on designing my third tattoo: Intended to be black shape down left leg outside hemline: Initially thought maybe a Polynesian style. Samoan or the like. These are all very personal tattoos and mean special unique things to each wearer. So, can’t directly rip one out of a mag/website. Got me thinking though – design my own, with its own special meanings to me. So, here I am. What’s important enough and relevant enough to have on me for the rest of my time? My Mantra: “Woke up, Got up, Went out and Got laid, Then died and Got Buried Dead in the Grave, Man.” In Chinese symbols, or hieroglyphs perhaps? Or letters within the shapes? Okay so probably hieroglyphs down ze leg avec a few lines to add form and structure. Maybe not necessarily Egyptian hieroglyphs. There must a more than one system of pictographs. Maybe create my own. Reach a compromise of emphasis between meaning and aesthetics. N.B. Other things to ponder upon. A) Explosion in popular