"So how have you been?" I can hear almost none of you ask.
"What have you been up to since your last, grippingly-exciting blog-type entry thing?"
I'm trying to get back into the swing of writing, as in just 72 hours, Doctor Who makes a return to the beautiful BBC and I feel it is my duty to continue 'reviewing' each and every episode. With varying success, depending on how bored of my own voice I get. Sometimes there is zero effort there. That's why I need to get back into the habit of writing something - so it flows a bit easier when it comes to assessing The Eleventh Hour. Hence my appearance now.
Not that I have much to say for myself. It's pretty much been life as normal at this end.
"What's new?"
Well... John Terry's been doing my fucking head in.
I refer not to his dirty, sleazy, cheaty antics. He's a footballer - you have to expect that sort of behaviour. Scratch that. He's a MAN - you have to expect that sort of behaviour. No, I refer not to his wandering genitalia, but to the hilarious running over of a Chelsea security guard as JT was driving away from the grounds. He was later breathalysed as a result of this "comedy mishap" - outside his home in Oxshott. As anyone who has been into my bedroom (triple-figures, last count) will know, from glancing at my super-cool map, Oxshott can be found in North Surrey.
Do you know how many separate news stories there were reporting this?! And how many I had to work my way through for a certain Surrey-related client?! Four-thousand, six-hundred. That's how many. My GOD... Work has been hell these last few weeks, with JT, the Budget, those pissing unions, more bank-related greed and a smattering of political stuff. Is there an election coming up or something?!
Which is why 'The Year Of Plenty' has been a welcoming distraction...
St Albans, where I ate lasagne, four-hundred waffles and my hair fell off.
The Annual Brighton Panto Trip, where Lee Tracey made a triumphant return to the stage but David Raven called in sick. I hope he's not dead. Like his beloved Dong.
La Tasca, where too much Chorizo was consumed and the reading material was heartily uplifting. And the place just reeked of seamen. (Oddly enough, this made us even hungrier)
Soho, where I spent more money on the jukebox than I did on pretty tipples - but still ended up drunk as a skunk and sick as a bastard.
Jewel, where discretion is the better part of valour.
Come Dine With Me, where I cooked stuff, ate stuff, drank stuff... And fell up something. Again. Always falling. If it's not a bush, it's a slightly ajar door.
The Rise & Fall Of Little Voice, where Diana Vickers played a mute and old men wore sexy scarves.
Tom McRae at Heavenly Social, where Gollum and Billy Connolly's love child on the mixing desk seemed to be having a fit. For an hour.
Tom McRae in Kings Cross, where I nearly cried over American Spirit, came in my pants at the AMAZING drum kick-in during Boy With The Bubblegun, nearly cried over My Vampire Heart, came in my pants at the AMAZING drum kick-in during Silent Boulevard... And did a sly masturbate at his sexy cover of human punchbag Rhianna's finest weather-based song Umbrella. Cleverly renamed Tomberella. You probably had to be there. PISSED. MYSELF. LAUGHING.
The Railway Tavern, where the leg-stroking appeared to rile the regulars and ninety-year old men started to play thrash metal. Urgh.
Diana Vickers at The Borderline, where people had lovely laughs, the man next to me smelt of piss, the man just in front of me was pretty hot and I realised that I cannot WAIT for her album, as every song she sang (Count them - Nine. Just nine) was actually completely worthy of purchasing-ment.
The Murder Mystery shindig, where my father died at the hands of the most vicious, manly, strong, threatening, butch boxer I've ever seen.
The most productive Writey Weekend I think we've ever had, where we actually managed to get first drafts of every episode to a stage where I am immensely proud of them. And came up with a line that - every time I think of it - makes me laugh like a camp hyena in the most inappropriate places. Mainly work, shops, public transport and funerals.
It's been a great start to 2010.
And that's without mentioning the fisting.
With all the behind-the-scenes reshuffling and management changes and restructures going on at Eggplant right now, I'm hoping for even more random days, nights and weekends in this 'Year Of Plenty' to distract me from the shitness of work. I'm also hoping John Terry doesn't get questioned by the filth outside his home in Oxshott again.
"What have you been up to since your last, grippingly-exciting blog-type entry thing?"
I'm trying to get back into the swing of writing, as in just 72 hours, Doctor Who makes a return to the beautiful BBC and I feel it is my duty to continue 'reviewing' each and every episode. With varying success, depending on how bored of my own voice I get. Sometimes there is zero effort there. That's why I need to get back into the habit of writing something - so it flows a bit easier when it comes to assessing The Eleventh Hour. Hence my appearance now.
Not that I have much to say for myself. It's pretty much been life as normal at this end.
"What's new?"
Well... John Terry's been doing my fucking head in.
I refer not to his dirty, sleazy, cheaty antics. He's a footballer - you have to expect that sort of behaviour. Scratch that. He's a MAN - you have to expect that sort of behaviour. No, I refer not to his wandering genitalia, but to the hilarious running over of a Chelsea security guard as JT was driving away from the grounds. He was later breathalysed as a result of this "comedy mishap" - outside his home in Oxshott. As anyone who has been into my bedroom (triple-figures, last count) will know, from glancing at my super-cool map, Oxshott can be found in North Surrey.
Do you know how many separate news stories there were reporting this?! And how many I had to work my way through for a certain Surrey-related client?! Four-thousand, six-hundred. That's how many. My GOD... Work has been hell these last few weeks, with JT, the Budget, those pissing unions, more bank-related greed and a smattering of political stuff. Is there an election coming up or something?!
Which is why 'The Year Of Plenty' has been a welcoming distraction...
St Albans, where I ate lasagne, four-hundred waffles and my hair fell off.
The Annual Brighton Panto Trip, where Lee Tracey made a triumphant return to the stage but David Raven called in sick. I hope he's not dead. Like his beloved Dong.
La Tasca, where too much Chorizo was consumed and the reading material was heartily uplifting. And the place just reeked of seamen. (Oddly enough, this made us even hungrier)
Soho, where I spent more money on the jukebox than I did on pretty tipples - but still ended up drunk as a skunk and sick as a bastard.
Jewel, where discretion is the better part of valour.
Come Dine With Me, where I cooked stuff, ate stuff, drank stuff... And fell up something. Again. Always falling. If it's not a bush, it's a slightly ajar door.
The Rise & Fall Of Little Voice, where Diana Vickers played a mute and old men wore sexy scarves.
Tom McRae at Heavenly Social, where Gollum and Billy Connolly's love child on the mixing desk seemed to be having a fit. For an hour.
Tom McRae in Kings Cross, where I nearly cried over American Spirit, came in my pants at the AMAZING drum kick-in during Boy With The Bubblegun, nearly cried over My Vampire Heart, came in my pants at the AMAZING drum kick-in during Silent Boulevard... And did a sly masturbate at his sexy cover of human punchbag Rhianna's finest weather-based song Umbrella. Cleverly renamed Tomberella. You probably had to be there. PISSED. MYSELF. LAUGHING.
The Railway Tavern, where the leg-stroking appeared to rile the regulars and ninety-year old men started to play thrash metal. Urgh.
Diana Vickers at The Borderline, where people had lovely laughs, the man next to me smelt of piss, the man just in front of me was pretty hot and I realised that I cannot WAIT for her album, as every song she sang (Count them - Nine. Just nine) was actually completely worthy of purchasing-ment.
The Murder Mystery shindig, where my father died at the hands of the most vicious, manly, strong, threatening, butch boxer I've ever seen.
The most productive Writey Weekend I think we've ever had, where we actually managed to get first drafts of every episode to a stage where I am immensely proud of them. And came up with a line that - every time I think of it - makes me laugh like a camp hyena in the most inappropriate places. Mainly work, shops, public transport and funerals.
It's been a great start to 2010.
And that's without mentioning the fisting.
With all the behind-the-scenes reshuffling and management changes and restructures going on at Eggplant right now, I'm hoping for even more random days, nights and weekends in this 'Year Of Plenty' to distract me from the shitness of work. I'm also hoping John Terry doesn't get questioned by the filth outside his home in Oxshott again.
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