That was the weekend that was

Wow, that was a fucking busy weekend. I'd wanted a nice quiet Friday night in, watching Kagemusha and stuffing my face with pistachio nuts and bottles of beer. My plans were thwarted when I got the following text off of Denise 'Me and my friend are coming down from Edinburgh and will be stopping at your place. Not only that, but I've told her you are wild and will show us a good time in York.' What was I to do? The pressure was enormous. I hadn't seen Denise for two years and had never met her mate before. The last time I'd seen her was in Sligo when everyone was coming down from a mountain of pills taken at a beach party. It was time to pull out the big guns and no mistake. I took them to the House of Trembling Madness to meet up with some archaeologists. Despite this, they did seem to enjoy themselves, with the exception of one guy who was an absolute cunt and trying to make an argument with everyone he came across. He was so much of a cunt that Kirk actually told him to his face that he was a cunt. Surprisingly, he was offended by the idea that he might be a cunt. You'd think if you were a cunt and someone told you that you were, it would only serve to confirm your suspicions that you were, after all, a cunt and should start thinking about changing your cuntish ways. Let's just hope that Kirk's newsflash worked in his favour and he has stopped being a cunt now.

Just stop already.

All that besides, Dervla had not only grown up in the last two years (she was able to give and receive hugs now...), but she had been inked upon. She lives in Andover where Chinooks are a common sight overhead and it has now become her lifelong dream to get a ride in one (this dream surpasses her earlier lifelong dream of holding a lamb. Unfortunately this dream has never been realised, so she has had to make do with another one). In an attempt to get a ride in a Chinook she befriended a soldier, who promised her the world (and a ride in a Chinook), all she had to do was endure endless mind numbing phone calls where he asked her what her favourite colour was. Quickly tiring of this she never got the ride she was promised, but then neither did she have to ride the sentry, so all's fair in love and war, I guess. Anyway, I suppose she thought the next best thing to riding in a Chinook was to have one tattooed on herself. Which she did and is without a shadow of a doubt the single best tattoo I have ever seen:

Womp womp womp

No sooner had I waved Dervla and Kristy (as was her friend's name) off, than I was off to pick up Gilbert and Kirky and whisk them away to Posh Bastard's country pile. For nearly a year he had been promising to host a barbecue for us survivors of Engaruka. It was complete coincidence that Gilbert was in town from Kenya for a week, but the barbecue was more spurred on by the fact that Mrs Posh Bastard was having a clear out of her old records and had promised me some Slayer vinyl. Now, I have a passing interest in both Slayer and vinyl, so this was great news indeed and any opportunity like that should be seized upon with great gusto. It took half an hour to drive down PB's drive and we were greeted by a butler upon arrival. PB and Mrs PB arrived moments later on horseback, covered in the blood of the hunt and surrounded by foxhounds that yapped at our ankles. PB seated us outside (an ancient law he quoted; something about proles not being allowed under the roof) until the weather took an inclement turn and he grudgingly allowed us into the West Wing. The food didn't stop coming and I was gripped with meat stroke yet again, for about the sixth time this summer. Not only that but our munching was drowned out with the dulcet tones of Slayer, Metallica, AC/DC and Led Zeppelin. Gilbert was taken away by the funniest taxi driver that North Yorkshire has to offer and the rest of us were free to continue drinking like fish and playing shithead, only interrupted by the occasional bellowing of SLAYEEEEERRRRRR!!!!

Posh bastards...

Mrs PB suddenly decided that it was time for everyone to go to bed and Kirky and I were shown our respective rooms, mine was up in the garret of the North Tower, his, a fourth floor lodging overlooking the gardens and the fountains. PB dressed in his finest tweed for breakfast the following morning and piled more bacon on us than the local pig farms could handle. I spent the afternoon lying on my couch in the recovery position watching The Redemption of General Butt Naked until Pins texted me about meeting up for a drink in the evening. She and Dermo were over from Northern Ireland for various weddings and such and were camping close to York. I met the two of them and we ended up in the Punch Bowl waiting for an hour for clap cold food whilst a Brazilian couple on the table besides us beat the shit out of their six year old son. Refusing the food and demanding a refund we eventually ensconced ourselves in the Bombay Spice and had a feast of curry that was only two hours after we had originally decided to eat...

Time, Gentlemen

Friday night was the bi-millennial On-Site drinks do. About three years ago Kate had cast the Runes and they had indicated this date and as fortune would have it, the stars were also in alignment (for the first time in 10,500 years). So it was decided that we lowly few, we band of bastards, should gather on the field of conflict and drink as much as humanely possible. Getting the crew from On-Site together to drink is such a painful task that it only occurs rarely and even then the full compliment of twits is not realised. Berny needs to get a babysitter (for himself), Brucey is off dropping children all over town at various Rainbow Brownie meetings, Ryan is up to his nuts in guts, Kate has been told the wrong fucking time, Logan Josh is off at some non-existent 'gig'. It's just too hard for one person to handle from an organisational point of view. It's akin to handling the logistics of the Afrika Korps and their landings at Tripoli. We had a date, as decided by the Gods and held on to it for our lives, come what may. So it was with certain trepidation that I approached the Maltings wondering who would be in there, or who would even turn up at all.

You sure we got the right day?

I shouldn't have worried, approach to the Maltings netted us Kamil and Berny, lurking in the streets like Burke and Hare. Upon arrival, I immediately saw Sir Stanners setting about a ruffian with his swagger stick. After clubbing said hooligan to the floor, Stanners (half cut from three days binge drinking) greeted us (Myself, Lauren and Steve, making a guest appearance. That's Lauren and Steve making a guest appearance, not me. I'm not a guest, I'm an employee. Oh, never mind) and the rest of the cunts duly filed in. We drank, we swore, we drank some more and by and by Logan Josh appeared as if out of nowhere. The bouncers wouldn't let him in due to his appearance and we made plans to meet him at the Akhorne. In the Akhorne were various people I'd met at Josh's birthday party, albeit not in military uniform this time. I spent my time there braying at Barry's muscle shirt and talking to Mrs Josh about buying cats. Despite a protracted argument with Josh about the logistics of 'all coming back to mine' rather than 'all getting a fucking taxi into the middle of nowhere (Huntington), getting pastis forced down our throats and then having to get another fucking taxi back on ourselves back to mine', myself, Lauren and Steve crashed out at some ungodly hour, drunk as cunts. Meanwhile, Stanners followed some young doris back to hers waiting for the rohypnol to kick in. A good night was had by all.

Thank fuck that's over for another forty years...

I was also on Telly again the other night, only as a photo though. Blink and you'd miss it, but follow this link below and I appear in the first fifteen minutes. I wouldn't bother with the rest of the show. It's shit and I'm not in it.

HISTORY COLD CASE: THE YORK 113

Dead Skin Mask

As promised I have uploaded some photos of last week's trip out to Bridlington.

OK, not Bridlington, but York. The RA were brought in to help reduce the pockets of resistance left in Tang Hall

The most exciting thing to happen all week:  a Sea King went over site.

How site looked when I arrived...

Dave Rhodes rocks, but gently...

Carolyn, the finest stripper the East Coast has to offer...

Coming attractions...

HELP! HELP! I'M TRAPPED! CAN ANYONE HEAR ME?

Bridlington knows its audience

 

'I'll take the Daniel O'Donnell pepper pot (I've already got a salt shaker...) and the Meercat figurine, please..'

A fitting tribute to the Hero of Damascus, a sun dial...

...overlooked by a council flat.

When I first saw this, I thought it said 'Wayward Ho'. Promising so much. Then I reread it and wondered what the fuck they were trying to say?
'Go West! It's better than this shithole in the east!'

The bright shopping experiences of Bridlington, just like Milan

Wide European style boulevards packed with cafes serving coffee twenty four hours of the day...

A bustling and lively seafront awaits...

'What year is this? Who's the President?'

Bridlington battles racism

Shadows over Bridlington, Cthulhu is risen...

Children of the corn...

After a week of fucking the site

This weekend I bought a metric fuckload of meat and beer (costing exactly £66.60p!!) for a small gathering in order to celebrate Cap'n Blighty's return from the colonies. Since marrying Pocahontas he has been working as a missionary bringing the Good Word to the Oneida. The news of his arrival drew in Mithras from Middle Earth and Tarquin Sheen from the frozen wastes of Ultima Thule. Moogdroog's highly developed sense of smell sniffed the whiff of burnt meat on the wind and also turned up, banging on the door, demanding food.

With a lack of garden furniture Moogdroog forced me to move the settee out of the house into the garden whilst raining blows down on me. It later lashed it down and my settee is still damp.

Stop hitting me!

Tarquin demonstrated his style of self defence that seems to centre around stabbing everyone before they get you.

I'm gonna fucking cut you!

And as usual with all my friend's gatherings the evening progressed into a drunken orgy of violence and comics.

And I finally brought the evening to a head by demonstrating the Manowar power fist to Cap'n Blighty at 3.00am whilst playing Sons of Odin at full blast.

The following day, we ditched Cap'n Blighty and the rest of us headed out to Wharram Percy to find the deserted medieval village. We searched and searched all afternoon in the lashing rain but we couldn't see no fucking village. The only thing we saw was a bunch of lumps in the ground. There were a few information boards scattered around indicating where the ploughs and sackbuts were kept, but beyond that, there was no sign of a Medieval village at all. It was a right fucking rip off. Well, it would have been if we'd have had to pay to get in.

'Where's the fucking village?!'

I finished the weekend off watching Hidden Fortress again with Tarquin, we both failed to spot Darth Vader in it.

Which ones are the gay robots?

And finally, Captain  Hindsight says 'The last post was NSFW, so don't look at it in a public space.'

Pile on!

I had envisioned a quiet weekend. I was going to get some bottles and sit in with Seven Samurai on Friday. I can't imagine what would have happened, I guess I would have upset one of them during the tea ceremony and would be left with a house slashed to pieces by katanas. But this was not to be, Kirky asked me at work if I'd like to go for a few quiet drinks with him and his mate Ed. I agreed but decided to only have a couple at most. I'm a bit skint until this coming Thursday. I have just changed back to my old job and am waiting on the last payment from the University and the first payment from the present company. I'm also waiting on payment from Hull University, so last week has been a bit tight, but I will be as a rich as a king by the end of this one. So with this in mind, I thought a couple of pints wouldn't hurt the coffers too much. Problem is, I can very rarely have a couple of pints. As was the case here. I got drunk and during lulls in the conversation filled the awkward silences with graphic descriptions of Wolf Bagging, whilst Sarah, Ed's other half, was eating. Speaking of which, she was having Rarebit, the culinary experience of the Welsh (besides fucking leeks). It's cheese on toast. Cheese on fucking toast. Cheese on Toast that costs the better part of £10. How the fuck does that happen? But that's the Welsh for you. Summed up in one culinary experience. Boring.

Ten quid for that? You must be fucking joking!

Then on Saturday Logan Josh summoned me to his side. It appeared he was getting bored with his present company (or more likely, they with him...) and needed a new target for his vitriol. I met him as the last of his previous group were bidding him a lusty adieu and I continued as the previous evening's theme had demanded. We spent many an hour in the Golden Slipper discussing the finer points of the Kriegsmarine. Again, I soon found myself stumbling through the lonely streets of York, broke and drunk. This is beginning to become a habit, I thought. Or at least I think I did. I don't remember what I was thinking. Too drunk, see.

I coulda had class. I coulda been a contender. I coulda been somebody

Then to round off the Bank Holiday weekend the Great Apes of Huntington threw open their cage and invited all and sundry for a barbecue. I began drinking at three in the afternoon and didn't stop for nearly another twelve hours. During this time, one of Logan and Mrs Josh's more boorish friends, Paul, lambasted me the entire time. We argued about the Pogues' version of The Band Played Waltzing Matilda (I bested him with a quickly thought out argument about tin hats not being issued to the British Army before 1916. One to me.), we argued about the location of Brinsworth and it's position next to the M1. We argued about a great many things, most of which I barely remember. I think he likes me. He even revealed that he was writing my biography and was only at the party to make further notes. Apparently, I'm from Brinsworth and not Whiston, as I had always thought. A large amount of the afternoon was also spent acquiring meatstroke, by forcing as much animal product into my gaping maw as possible.

'Oh God, someone else is wearing the same outfit as me!'

Later on, I spent some of the night admiring Josh's record collection, his Geoff Love album was a thing of beauty. I have never seen one in such good condition. He's a lucky, lucky man. Mrs Josh battered the survivors of the outside party with shots of Eau de Vie, it seems she'd syphoned off a tractor in rural France and presented it to us as an alcoholic beverage. I woke up in their spare bedroom with their snores and farts from next door rattling the walls as though I was in Dresden during Bomber Harris' redecoration of the place. This morning found us wading our way through yet more meaty goodness that was leftover from the previous evening. A great hangover cure.

Breakfast's ready...

I forgot to mention this in the previous entry about Triples. On the bring and buy stall we found EBay, the Card Game. I think it speaks for itself. Right, I'm off to see if I can find a copy on EBay...

The Daily Mail says NO to the Euro!

As I mentioned in the last post this weekend was the night of nights, the best evening's entertainment all year. Yes folks, it was time again for the Eurovision Song Contest. That gathering of tribes from across Europe, the introduction into your life of countries you never knew existed (Lichtenstein) or were even a part of Europe (America's entry: Israel). It's the best night of the year, not only because you can be legitimately racist about the the cheese eating, garlic smelling, surrender monkeys that parade like retarded peacocks around boulevard cafes on the Champs Elysees, but you can also see the how the political map of Europe stands. Mind you, this part is usually pretty fucking obvious, like when Greece and Cyprus vote each other Douze Points every fucking year, or the Balkans countries voting for each other in order to avert sparking off another assassination attempt on Archduke Franz Ferdinand. It's also great because you get to get to dress up as Norway, get really fucking drunk and scream at the beetroot smeared faces of the Moldavians as they pretend to be people. Which is pretty much what I did on Saturday night. Lauren and Steve held a party and after umming and arring all week about it, I decided to go and am glad I did. It was either that or stay in alone, dress up as Norway, get really fucking drunk and scream at the chocolate smeared faces of the Belgians as they pretend to be people.

Another quiet night in...

I took my Norway costume, which seems to be getting added to each passing year. Along with my BIG FUCKING Norwegian flag, this year I had a bear skin. I think they have bears in Norway. Mind you, I also think that everyone in Norway runs around in corpse paint and burns churches down, an image I don't want to spoil by ever going there. So I tipped up at Lauren's draped in a bear skin and flag and proceeded to push as much alcohol into me as humanely possible. Angela had picked up some Romanian engine cleaner as a present for Lauren that we all had a shot of during the Romanian entry. It was fucking lethal, it came in a clear plastic bottle and had a ever so slight yellowish tinge to it. I took my shot and immediately felt as though I'd drunk some alien blood. It burnt a hole straight through my body and down through three floors of the flats. Besides the booze, this year's contest was a doozy, and by doozy, I mean doozy. The Moldovan entrants were great with their tribute to Devo, Lauren reckoned that their heads went all the way to the top of their hats. Which is probably true.

Words, literally, fail me...

Ireland came up trumps for me though, in the form of the fucktard conjoined Irish twins Jedward. They showed up looking like the Legion of Doom. If only they'd started cage fighting with folding chairs, the evening would have been perfect. I think Jedward are a prime example of why Ireland needs another potato famine.

Twats

The Danish contestant brought shame upon the competition by letting loose a stream of foul language that turned the very air blue and would embarrass a sailor.

Ban this filth!

Who won? Who cares? It was one of those former Soviet Block countries that all vote for one another and Russia, just in case the sleeping bear decides to wake up and want their oil reserves back. Whoever it was won't be able to afford a ceremony as lavish as the one thrown out by the Germans. Next years event will be held on a deserted strip of grassland with plastic chairs set up for the audience to sit on in the biting cold while the acts gyrate on nailed together wooden pallets. Whatever, I'll still be doing the same next year, screaming at the TV whilst shitfaced and covered in Norway.

A quick video of the German contestant, Lena, cos she's fit. No other reason. Sue me.

So it was with a heavy hangover and lack of sleep that I gave my final act as a teacher on Sunday. I took my class out to the Leeds Armouries to peer at weapons for the afternoon. I managed to hold the sick down long enough to bluff my way through a  potted history of weaponry in the Great War and then led them in triumphant procession to Pizza Express. Eight years ago when I was straightening a section in Ocean Villa's tea rooms trench and two hundred .303 rounds fell out on me, I never thought that I would one day be teaching this shit for a University. But here I am, after completing eight weeks of lectures and lesson plans, I only have a pile of essays to mark and I've finished my first 'lecturing' job. (the LOLest thing is, I initially misspelled University in that last sentence...)

'Oh God, I hope they don't find me out! At least not before they pay me...'

And a couple of final things. I was going through the student's field note books this afternoon and felt I had to share this page from Myle's book:

And Anna sent me a link for this 'product' to review on  Amazon, so please sit back and enjoy Pledge Manner's take on Pussy Energy Drink:

Cunts Dined With Me

Regular readers may remember that before Christ's Mass I had the fortune to become ensconced within a tribe of Great Apes. I spent a long time studying the behaviour of these unfortunate creatures and was able to contribute to science with my findings. Fortune favoured the brave once again last night as the creatures were released into human society and I was able to provide them with lodgings for the evening. Knowing their dietary habits already (ie Thursday being 'Curry Night'), I provided a mouth watering curry avec poppadoms. It was a brave step, allowing these beasts into my house, so I brought along a companion, Moogdroog, who was to serve as official war artist. I wasn't sure if the creatures were sufficiently house trained, but science calls and I bade them welcome.

'You may release the chains, the beast is placated with Becks'

Once over the threshold the patriarch ('Tim') began making his presence known by waving his horse's head handled cane around the place willy nilly. The matriarch ('Cath') bemoaned the decor and inspected the contents of my fridge. After placating both with bottles of beer I drove them into the front room after a quick tour around the West Wing and guest bedrooms. I fed the pair and they seemed to like the fare, although 'Tim' displayed his usual distaste for vegetables by leaving red pepper lumps on his plate. Moogdroog finally turned up after 'Tim' had eaten all the food in the house, leaving her with nothing. Thankfully she had already planned ahead and feasted on chips and wine. Then the evenings entertainment got underway.

You will have someone's eye out with that... Too late!

I discovered that there is only one thing the West Yorkshire great apes appreciate and that is rudimentary beat combos such as Black Lace. It reminds them of the Working Man's Clubs of their homeland. They are also partial to the tribal sounds of Rusty Lee. Her 'Invitation to Party' certainly got the dance floor moving. Realising I was onto a winner I tried out Geoff Love's Big Disco Sound Close Encounters Of The Third Kind. This had 'Tim' whooping for joy during the Star Wars cantina band section.

Tranquilise the Beasts!

The evening drew to a close and the zoo bus arrived to whisk them off back to their pen in the wilds of Huntington. In their time in my house, they had consumed 15 crates of Becks lager, 25 bottles of white wine, 18 bottles of Red wine and 16 bottles of Tesco's finest Cava. I fought the hangover by staying in bed this morning. I was to have a bed delivered from Ikea, but had misread the order and the thing was being dropped off NEXT Friday... So with my tail between my legs I went to work for the afternoon, missing chip day by a whisker.

What day is the recycling?

I started teaching this week as well. I battered my students with four years of war compressed into two hours. They were glassy eyed, dumbstruck and tearful by the end. Job well done I think.