Not the toys Polly had in mind for her birthday...
I've been nagged. I've been prodded. I've been poked (and not in the amiable Faeceboobs way). I have neglected you, my dear and faithful following. For that I am truly, truly sorry. I have an appointment with my pit of ashes, at which time I fancy I'll be sporting the latest in Hessian fashion trends.
Speaking of fashion, I've finally solved the single greatest fashion related question since MC Hammer's pants. All youngsters are Vulcans. Their pointy Spock ears need to be hidden from human detection and are thus tucked into their caps. I'm sure of it.
And yesterday, in a daring and original display of humanitarian magnanimity, I went a'kennel building. In fact our entire office went along to The Emma Animal Rescue Society and did our bit for the 67 Minutes initiative. Along with a whole mess of naval cadets, a local health food store owner and 4 very loud blokes, I sawed and hammered together a majestic mansion of a kennel. Actually, the previous sentence makes it sound like we all pitched in for the one kennel. Nope, we eventually made 30. Unfortunately for the ladies in the office, that sort of demanding physical labour was a bridge too far and they were recruited as cat groomers for the afternoon. Had I been given the choice, I'd definitely have gone for 67 minutes of pussy stroking too!
Anyway, back to the fashion. It is with a heavy heart that I must admit that fashion is not restricted to the runways or the underside of young men's bottoms. It is also to be found in a variety of places, such as broadcasters of popular "entertainment". Not only do these halfwit "musicians" with the vocabulary of Hodor influence our youth's taste in attire, they also poison their minds and ears with whatever the fuck it was that I just heard...
Seriously 5FM? A radio station that used to employ the likes of Alex Jay, Phil Wright and Barney Simon. Who the fuck do you have working as your programme directors? The song I just heard sounded like someone with a medical condition instead of an intellect accidentally got a KAOS pad stuck up their arse. A KAOS pad linked to an early 80s Casiotone keyboard. Imagine the sounds if that person was to scratch around their rectal cavity trying to extricate the gerbil that was up there. Of course the gerbil itself is on hallucinogens. Don't even get me started on the lyrical integrity. My unborn progeny could throw up milk on my imaginary wife's cracked nipples and even that would contain more substantial prose.
Luckily, dear readers, there is a solution - a counterpoint to the mortifying decay of "art" in today's sordid, sad world. Shannon Hope is in Cape Town this weekend, and a more accomplished, admired, eloquent and exceptional musician you will not easily find. She is here to seduce your ears. Her tantalizing brand of powerful and evocative musical magic is a sure fire antidote to the bottom scratching that currently pollutes our airwaves. She will be mesmerising a very, very lucky audience at the Mahogany Room on Sunday evening. Do not miss out...
Tonight I brave this slightly nippy weather to play some glorious football again. It's transfer season, but I still have yet to see one scout come out and watch. How on earth do the big clubs expect to sign me if they don't make the effort?
After that (and a quick shower) it's all excitement as we have or first official band practice with a new member. You can just imagine...
NGDG: eBay just sent me an email with the following subject line: "Save on designer sunglasses and dresses, Neal." Foolish algorithm; I only buy my dresses from Zara.
Spread The Love. Spock-shocker!
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