It's 9.20am; it is already hot; I didn't sleep well and I'm sitting in front of the PC naked - Yes, totally stark bollock naked. I appreciate how this must make many of you feel, but we must move past this.
I've recently been made admin on the All Things Tottenham Hotspur fanpage and was looking at all the disgruntled posts about yesterday's defeat in the opening game of the season, when the tranquillity and peace of the street was shattered by a massive BLORTCH!
Now, as the inventor of the term and perpetrator of the funniest use of it ever (in the Forest of Dean playing Stella Artois sponsored Midnight Football with Torches in the woods just after a storm), I have a vague, slightly fraternal and not at all grudging feeling whenever Fuckwit belches in his inimitable (loud) way. However...
Just to add a slightly surreal feel to it, Mrs Sexually Explicit wanders out front to get something from the car in a skimpy little bum length number that leaves very little to the imagination, just as Fuckwit launches into a burp of gospel proportions, leaving me wondering if he thinks that's his own, highly successful, sexual mating call - I fancy that girl, I must burp at her loudly!
Then Fishwife's mum and dad turned up and I knew I had to put some clothes on...
As Brown as the Girl in Boney M's Ring
You'll not get any complaints from me; no sir. I've heard far too many complaints over the last couple of days and frankly, you people, the ones who've been complaining, you should have your sexuality removed; or your arse filled with quick drying concrete or your brains sucked out of your feet with a long straw. You will be freezing your tits off in no time and wondering why people as wonderful as me are calling you all cold loving cunts.
That said, I have gone a wonderful colour... Bollocks to skin cancer, I'd rather feel like I look healthy than look like some ghost.
I Don't Have the Words
I don't. Honest. There were several bits where I probably seemed very gay. Other bits where I laughed. Bits where I thought I was going to cry. A bit where I shouted at the screen. A bit where I demanded characters I can't see them introducing.
Oddly enough, last night I watched The Cabin in the Woods and thought it was utterly bonkers and possibly an act of catharsis. Tonight, I decided that Joss Whedon probably is god. I cannot believe I didn't go to the cinema to see it.
If you don't know what I'm talking about, you obviously have paid no attention to me for years.
And I Get Even Nerdier
I'm going to harp on about this a lot. I'm going to be watching the next HBO series wondering just how much of the Game of Thrones books they can ignore and probably, more importantly, why. A Clash of Kings is as different from series two of Game of Thrones as tennis is different to having a wank on an aqueduct while shouting at Jesus. I've been so bemused by some of it that I've actually been wondering whether HBO just decided to do their own thing or if whoever they're paying to adapt it possibly had a stroke and didn't tell anyone.
- There's probably loads of stuff, but I either can't remember it or can't be arsed.