BETAMAXNOMATES

No card. No party. No tunnel of hands for me to run through, cheering. Not even a Cartier timepiece. Poxy cheap bastard employers. Inexcusable really, when your consider my five, long hard weeks of loyal and unwavering service.
But do I care? No - not in the least. Hand on heart. Or where my heart used to be before I cut it out with a spoon. Why a spoon? Because I wanted it to hurt more.

But, I’m not going to bitch about work tonight though - been there, done that, sold the T-shirts. Workbitch finishes here. At least until Monday.
Now, it’s time for a moment’s reflection. Today I 'arr bin mostly thinking about life, God and the universe, and other such trivial matters. God made the universe, apparantly - and not a bad job he made of it either. Though I still have some other worlds to see. It’s not like I’ve found religion or anything - or that religion’s found me - but I suppose you could say I’m nosing around a bit, poking about in some odd corners of my brainstem, rooting out some Big Questions, dusting 'em off, holding them up to the light.
So to speak.

My starting point is this book - you may have heard of it - the ‘Holy Bible’ it’s called, written by, well, lots of different people, though, disappointingly, none are Martin Amis or Kurt Vonnegut. Unless they are working pseudonymously or behind a veil of anonymity but, really, what kind of a pretentious fucktard would do that?

I started reading - well, flicking though it - this evening on the bus back from town, occasionally pausing to rest the book on my lap and smile serenely at my fellow passengers (on the bus of life) until someone stabbed me repeatedly and I died later in hospital. My legacy is as a statistic, a footnote in the chronicles of society’s continuing collapse. You must never forget the name ‘Anonymous’.
Stranger still, tomorrow I shall forsake the gaudy charm of T4’s Sunday morning crap-o-rama, to go to church. This means missing Popworld, which is quite a big deal for me. Best music show on the telly IMHOFWIWYMMV. My love for the snark - the pop, the bitch - burns with the passion of a thousand Christs.

Anyway, enough Big Talk. I need sleep. I think this is a kind of existensial hangover I’m experiencing here - no doubt a result of Friday night’s lengthy vodka-fuelled conversation with Neuro, a debate that culminated in the two of us strolling round Celbridge at 3 in the morning, swigging M&S champagne (pronounced ‘sham-pagnee’) straight from the bottle, pimpin’ it like a provincial P. Diddy and Jennifer Lopez.
You can read her hilarious (to me, anyway) account of the evening here.

Yours correspondingly, looking forward to the dd’s in the mm ahead.


Mood: Holier than thou, mo’fucker!

Music: Holy, holy music... well, Destiny's Child.