So it’s a Friday night. You’re getting ready to go out gallivanting. Brushing your teeth. Doing a little jig. Hear a knock at the door. Hmm. Who’s that? Shimmy your way out, electric toothbrush still whirling away. Open the door. It’s the police. Oh Jesus. What have I done now?
“Want some skunk geezer?”
Pardon? “Some skunk?”
Do I want a skunk? “Yeah. Want to buy?”
Why would I buy a skunk? “You being funny?”
Am I being funny? “You is being funny, pretty boy.”
So I get out of the tube. East London. Not sure what part. But already it looks dodge. Balls. Never considered this when booking stand-up gigs. Presumed central-ish would be grand. Anywhere close enough to Picadilly. This seemed close. And it was. Just also dodge. Hmm. Not sure which way to go either. East? Which way did I come out? I’ll head to that Starbucks, do some sussing. Oh right, just up the road a bit? Cheers boss, and an espresso to go. So I’m back strolling up the street. Convinced Starbucks guy pointed me in the right direction. Looking for a venue whose name is now eluding me. King’s Arms? King’s Cross? Queen Bishop? No clue. Oh yeah, the Goat’s Head? I think that’s it. Hang on, what does this dodgy looking hooded dude want… Pardon? Oh right, I think he’s trying to sell me some skunk. No clue what the funk that is but- He’s getting angry. Time to walk faster. Hey hup. Quicken the pace, hang 0n, giddy up, the Shepherd’s Cross, found the place, in I go, skunk, back up away to funk! Continue Reading »
Cab’s outside. My clothes are still wet. What. The. Funk. Dryer mysteriously died the night before. Damp garments strewn all over my abode. Dry, funkers, dry!! Need to pack you, you and you. Need ye all for my trip to London. Vital I have that white t-shirt and that white t-shirt and that pair of socks, vita– Actually. I’ve over packed as is, so, I, don’t. Ha. Cab man’s beeping. Com-ing! And out the door I go. Flustered little whure. Still on time. Just leaving packing until the very last minute. But. Not to worry. On the road! Just swing by Kailand’s house. Swoop her up. My mighty London trip partner in crime. Honk honk. Out comes Kailand and her smaller suitcase up. How is hers smaller than mine? Maybe a more ergonomical packer? Is ergonomical even a word? Who knows, who cares, I’m sweating, lugging luggage, my top’s now off, panting in the back off the mini bus, Jesus, L.A is hot today, and now we are actually on our way. Off to England for a spot of tea and crumpets. LonDumb, here we… Ahem.
Check in. Air New Zealand. Bumped up. Premium. Oh Betsy. Mighty. Notice Mischa Barton checking in one ahead. Moving up to the C-List of the world. Security. Sandwich. Wait. Board. Dancing. Suss out our seats. Appears we have done well. Premium means pod. As in instead of a cramped row of seats in the mule class behind, we are now swimming in space in a pod like container. Buckets of room. Kind of like First Class. But just not quite. Still. Pod class all the way. Flying like winners across the Atlantic. Mighty. Highly recommended!
All has be quiet on the wonderful blogaruu. Head down. Editing on. So far, so mighty. Soon ye shall see and read and laugh and weep and dance and be merry!
Oh ’twill be a glorious day, to be true.
Besides that, I have kept my venturing out to a minimum. Bar some improv shindigs (mighty) and the odd Christmas shopping hunt (also quite mighty). Although, I did go out Saturday night. An odd occurrence: I was not DJigging. Blip in the system. Matrix messed up. Threw me for a loop. What to do? I know. I’ll just go to the bar where I was meant to be DJing, collect a cheque owed to me and have a pint or nine. Because people simply love going into where they work when they’ve the night off! Look-at-me-outside-of-work-hours, kind of thing. Clown. Continue Reading »
Quiet old week. On the blogaruu at least. In the surreal world, busy as usual. Vital stuff too. Such as: My ability to somehow provoke strangers into instant dislike. Going strong. Other night in the gym. Quiet enough. Only two others in there. Finishing up. About to leave. iPod on. Randomer says something to me. Pardon? ‘Are you finished with them?’ Yeah, all yours buddy. ‘Put your weights back.’ Which now? ‘Your weights. You left them next to the machine.’ Not my weights. ‘I said put them back!’ (Perhaps now is a good time to mention this guy appeared to be a gimp from the minute he walked in to the gym. Small. Angry. Balding. Purpley red head. Veins trying to jump out of his neck. Wrist bands. Ankle bands. Swinging arms. Flexing into the mirror. Hitting his head before doing any exercise. Cherry on top. Wearing a blue-tooth ear piece. In the gym. On the phone. Shouting out a conversation. While working out. Whole time he was there. Also appeared he was some sort of a spoof agent. Complete. Utter. Gimp. Continue Reading »