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I don't usually do weekend reports, so as usual I shall make stuff up and lie like Mark E. Smith should people think they've spotted the joins.
So anyway. Went out for several scoops on the Friday, and very nice the real ale testing was too. I understand from the tame twentysomething I keep in the cages out the back that this sort of public-house-visitation goes on rather a lot. On the way back there was unfortunateness, which I managed to preserve for posterity due to the connected nature of all the small silver boxes in this universe and indeed most of the other ones I've visited. However, the unfortunateness was compounded by later stupidity best de-preserved. I shall attend to that forthwith.
It's a lot like a scene in 'Mr Jolly lives next door' where our steaming drunk heroes have piled out of Nicholas Parsons' house, clambered into their van and then fallen asleep with the engine howling away in neutral. A chap can fall asleep, dead drunk, and then struggle awake some hours later to discover that the Internet has been howling away in the interim.
I think that's one of the better Comic Strip films. Along with the Bad News pair, 'Five go mad...', Beat Generation and Private Enterprise.
I also wrote some words. I think they're a bit average, but as has become patently obvious I'm far from the best judge of that.
At one point early on Saturday morning, I was to be found walking round the barns and outbuildings of a house I've not lived in for twenty years, accompanied by a mystery blonde. We were about to potter back indoors when we happened upon a mob of LARPers milling about in the space between the back kitchen door and the dairy. When asked, they seemed rather keen on the idea of a spot of tea, so we beetled into the kitchen to boil a number of kettles. You may imagine my surprise to discover Ruby Wax spannering the carburettor on the Aga. She'd made the poor beast sound like a Hawker Hunter at part-throttle.
"Oi, Wax. What's your game?" I asked. As well one might.
She opined that she hated Agas, couldn't cook anything on them and was adjusting mine in the hope of making it work better.
I picked up the poker, waved it in her direction and informed her that she'd better put it back the way she'd found it, otherwise she'd be answering to a mob of thirsty LARPers.
So anyway. Went out for several scoops on the Friday, and very nice the real ale testing was too. I understand from the tame twentysomething I keep in the cages out the back that this sort of public-house-visitation goes on rather a lot. On the way back there was unfortunateness, which I managed to preserve for posterity due to the connected nature of all the small silver boxes in this universe and indeed most of the other ones I've visited. However, the unfortunateness was compounded by later stupidity best de-preserved. I shall attend to that forthwith.
It's a lot like a scene in 'Mr Jolly lives next door' where our steaming drunk heroes have piled out of Nicholas Parsons' house, clambered into their van and then fallen asleep with the engine howling away in neutral. A chap can fall asleep, dead drunk, and then struggle awake some hours later to discover that the Internet has been howling away in the interim.
I think that's one of the better Comic Strip films. Along with the Bad News pair, 'Five go mad...', Beat Generation and Private Enterprise.
I also wrote some words. I think they're a bit average, but as has become patently obvious I'm far from the best judge of that.
At one point early on Saturday morning, I was to be found walking round the barns and outbuildings of a house I've not lived in for twenty years, accompanied by a mystery blonde. We were about to potter back indoors when we happened upon a mob of LARPers milling about in the space between the back kitchen door and the dairy. When asked, they seemed rather keen on the idea of a spot of tea, so we beetled into the kitchen to boil a number of kettles. You may imagine my surprise to discover Ruby Wax spannering the carburettor on the Aga. She'd made the poor beast sound like a Hawker Hunter at part-throttle.
"Oi, Wax. What's your game?" I asked. As well one might.
She opined that she hated Agas, couldn't cook anything on them and was adjusting mine in the hope of making it work better.
I picked up the poker, waved it in her direction and informed her that she'd better put it back the way she'd found it, otherwise she'd be answering to a mob of thirsty LARPers.
