February 01, 2006

My Mate Dave

My mate Dave, I reckon, is one of only three people to read this blog. The other two, I think, are my Dad and my girlfriend. I know nobody reads it because there is a company which emails me every day telling me how many hits I get, which is basically none.
This post though, is for Dave.
Dave and I have done loads together. 'The Brazilian Excursion,' (see January) is a fairly accurate illustration of the breath-taking speed and inevitability with which our escapades go awry.
With friends, we've drunk together, travelled together, run away from ugly women together, fiddled expense accounts together and sworn each other to secrecy every glorious step of the way. We are, like they say in the movies, buddies, and for all those reasons, I've let Dave kip in the spare room, on and off, for the past month or so.
That was until his most recent departure to 'visit his grandparents,' when it fell upon me to freshen up the spare room in preparation for future visits from guests/landladies/flatmates etc. I only intended to air the bed and open the windows but imagine my heartfelt dismay, nae HORROR, when I uncovered a collection of empty beer cans stashed under the window sill.
This must mean, 'buddy', that all those times you said you had no beer left, you actually did. Not only that, but you must have sat in your bedroom ALONE, and drank them without me. AND, as if none of this was bad enough, you were only too happy to help yourself to my beer which I ALWAYS leave in the fridge for public use.
Did our escapades mean nothing? The roadblock we built on Byres Road? The high-speed chase through Sao Paulo? The Elvis fans? The flight to Belfast? Nothing?
I'm sorry Dave but in light of the beer can discovery I feel compelled, though it pains me, to make the following announcements:
I) From now on, all my beer will live under my bed, in a padlocked box.
II) Although Dave said he was leaving Glasgow to visit his grandparents, he actually went to Amsterdam to get laid.

Mr Honky Tonk's Soggy Justice

Honky Tonk's mercilessly-low opinion of the ruling Labour government is hurtling earthwards with it's tail on fire and a dead pilot at the helm. His savage insights blaze down the throats of Tony's Phoneys and up the backsides of the new Tory leadership with equally determined precision and deadly accuracy. Tonight. He is on form:
"Good evening, how can I help?"
"Are you watching the television?"
"Well, I'm trying to work but yes, we've got one on in the corner."
"Did you see that Starckey woman on the television?"

"Em no. I was actually busy trying to explain, in intricate detail, how the effects of high atmospheric air pressure on the terrestrial transmission network caused her to miss Coronation Street."
"I don't care about Coronation Street. Look, who is this? Did you see the Starckey woman on the television or not?"
"Well there's more guff comes out of her gob than even Blair's, whom, by the way, we no longer call Tony McWaffle. We now call him Tony McPuke. In fact, we say to the whole Labour party: 'Take a running jump New Labour- into the Thames, Tees, Trent or Severn, we don't care.' They'll know all about it when they've drowned for Britain. And you can tell that to the regions. Toodle-ooh, HONK HONK, byeee!"
Line goes dead