It has been my birthday. Twitter has been wonderful and kind and lovely. The day has been busy and has involved a lot of my favourite people. I am happy. Tomorrow is birthday schnitzel lunch day. I am old and may have just pissed myself.
Thank you. From the bottom of my wrinkled heart.
Haribirthday.
Tomorrow is my birthday. A birthday is just another number, so I will not be celebrating*
*I will be celebrating. I have written an itinerary. Look:
HARIBO THURSDAY.
BIRTHDAY FRIDAY.
SCHNITZEL BIRTHDAY SATURDAY.
BIRTHDAY SATURDAY EVENING WITH NICOLI AND SIMONE.
BIRTHDAY SURPRISE SUNDAY.
BIRTHDAY LOVELY MONDAY.
BIRTHDAY LOVELY TUESDAY.
FUCKING WORK WEDNESDAY.
BIRTHDAY THURSDAY.
BIRTHDAY HOLIDAY FRIDAY, SATURDAY, SUNDAY AND MONDAY.
POST-BIRTHDAY CELEBRATION TUESDAY.
BACK TO STUPID WORK WEDNESDAY.
Oh versus eau.
This is not a photo. Not at all. It is definitely a video. My mission today was to record a video of myself saying ‘oh’. This is because I say it all wrong. I have been practising, but if I say ‘oh’ properly, I find myself nodding knowingly. I am a freak.
Today, I went to a pub for lunch. A ploughman’s, to be specific. Whilst there, the pub garden was descended upon by a variety of personalities. I have captured some within this photograph. At the large table, you can see a group of women. The theme of their dress was ‘flowery’. One had large breasts, one had a Pimms and one had a mobile phone glued to her ear. At no point was it established who was the designated driver.
At the table slightly behind them is a man. The man is clad in a suit and tie. Let’s call him Clarke. Clarke looked nervous throughout his lonesome visit to the pub beer garden. He drank half a pint of lager, nervously picked at his trousers and stared at his phone quite a lot. It is obvious that Clarke is shagging his wife’s best friend, whose morals got the better of her at the last minute. When his phone finally rang, the conversation probably went like this:
Clarke (nervously): ‘Hello?’
Wife’s best friend (we shall call her Bea): ‘Clarke. Clarke. I am so sorry. I love your name and your suits and your fondness for beer gardens within a leafy surrounding, but I just can’t do this to your wife. It’s wrong, Clarke, it’s wrong. But I love you, Clarkey. Oh, I just don’t know what to do. What would Jesus do?’
Clarke: ‘Jesus would probably fuck me.’
Bea: ‘Ok. I’m on my way. Meet you in the field by the rabbit holes.’
Clarke: ‘Ok. Bye. Bye now. I’m hanging up now. No, you hang up. No, you hang up. No…oh. You’ve hung up.’
*Clarke runs to field*.
Sometimes, on a very bright sunny day, you can see Clarke in his suit and tie, wandering over the fields and hills of Icklesham Valley.
The End.
This is my foot, approximately one hour and 34 minutes ago. It was walking briskly away from work as it desperately wanted to do the following six things:
A/ Walk away from work and all the eyes. Broken eyes.
2/ Get into the car.
C/ Press the accelerator all the way home.
F/ Be home.
Also, I think I walk a bit wonky. It’s time to change my walk.
FUCK. FORGOT TO DO PHOTO. IN BED. TIRED. LOOK. Strimmer wire. Didn’t read packaging. Took wire from packaging. Shouldn’t have done. Terrible, terrible tangled mess. Fucked up completely. Discarded.
*Sleeps*
I am on my way home. I am sat in the train of despair. Everyone is going home. Home. Home is home. I will be there when I get there. Been around the world. I am tired.
CHOO CHOOOOO. ALL ABOARD THE TRAIN OF EXCITEMENT. WE ARE GOING TO PORTSMOUTH FOR A BARBECUE. CHOOOOOO. CHOO CHOO. CHOO CHOO CHOOO (to fade)
#TTphototoday I spent the day in London, photographing The Shard and snapping a series of street interviews by Richard Dixon, for publication in the near future. (hence no photos of The Shard) I did find this beautiful building close to London bridge and on the way home I travelled with a Time-Lord.
Nice bloke.
This is a photo of my head. I took it close up so you can see my brain. My brain has sworn many times today; at the OAP who terrorises me, at the bus which broke down making a googly-eyer late for her appointment, at Too Much Traffic, at my googly eye machine which broke just as I was meant to be leaving work, at people who were there and in my way, at Firstborn for eating my brioche, at the woman in the nice car for having more money than me, at my feet for being so ugly and at my hair for sticking in the air. Then Brain swore at the prospect of going to Lidl, which is the closest supermarket on my route home. Now I feel guilty for swearing in my head at Lidl, as it was nice and cool and had only ten people in itself. Then I came home and now I am sitting in the garden, supping a drink as the sunshine disappears behind the Vibrator Tree. And it ain’t so bad, after all.
