Writers block again. Two weeks since last effort. I’ve joined Facebook as a pretend person, which may account for lack of creative erection. Here’s my sad little world.
Up until this morning homemade Pina Coladas are a brilliant idea and make a nice change from a glass or two of wine.
As of this morning homemade Pina Coladas are a poor idea, especially when they are prefixed and suffixed by a glass of wine or two. Plus Graham Norton and beyond.
Friday night movie ‘The Martian’ was highly anticipated but sadly failed to produce. I’d like to think it failed because we were feeling the effects of a couple of homemade Pina Coladas, but in reality it’s because so many films are shit that the mediocre ones float to the top and are hailed as masterpieces. Even Matt Damon couldn’t save it. Or the 45 minutes shorter it should have been.
‘Sing Street’ on the other hand is very lovely and when it comes out properly you should watch it. Particularly if you like films that make you happy. Please don’t tell ‘the wife’ that it was the highlight of my week, because she insisted we should go and see it and I can’t bear to admit that she was right.
My Mum has mentioned ‘Eye In The Sky’ twice, which means she really likes it. I don’t much like the look of it myself but I’ll explain why another time. I love my Mum though. She’s great.
‘The Wife’ gets her hair cut in central London. I’ve never managed to establish just how much it costs but I’m just very glad we don’t have a shared bank account for these things. It’s made worse by the fact she keeps forgetting to pay the congestion charge which goes from 11 quidish to 60 quidish after 24 hours. Although I do feel she should find alternative options for her coiffeuriturism (new word?) I must also defend her on the congestion charge. In principle it’s a good idea but the hike in payment for forgetting is the work of a pen-pushing, tiny brained, petty minded cunt. It won’t save the planet so at least afford people propping up the best city in the world a second gasp. Lordy, that sounds pretentious.
We watched a programme the other night on the resurgence of the real ‘fur trade’. This has been spurred on by billionaire wankers and daft musicians/hip-hop ringpieces like Kanye etc. All tossers. I like a good steak but keeping some poor furry bugger spinning round in a cage just so you can strip its skin off to keep your neck cosy is surely now an act preserved solely for conscience free, over-paid bell ends. It really should stop but I also don’t need a supermodel to be paid to be in advert to tell me. On the other hand I would pay to see Kanye West wrestling a hungry grizzly bear.
Oh, I’m also not very excited by the whole Shakespeare birthday thing. Specifically the typhoon of actors droning on (hypocrite) about ‘doing’ Hamlet or Macbeth or giving Prince Charles a hand job or being in the same room as Dame Judy bloody Dench.
To finish we shall go back to the start and the multi-fold wonders of Facebook. I have joined this hallowed toilet bowl to get my ‘writing’ ‘out there’. So far I have three friends. One is ‘the wife’. Bless. Another is my sister and the third knows who she is and I’m very grateful she cares enough to keep up. I’ll probably get to grips with the whole thing in due course so I can watch my alternative career blossom into a tiny nothing but I’m almost sure I’m not going to enjoy looking at my email tray to see which people I don’t know, just because I do know ‘the wife’, my sister an you know who.
Do you know? Do you know Tracey Belch? Dow you know Kenneth Bulge? Do you know Alex Ring? Do you know Thomas Felch, Elias Crutch, Margaret Rimjob, Carole Fister, Nadia Poo, Patricia Dimple, Melanie Piehole, Tony McFuck, Claudine McSexoffendor, Hayley Prostate or Andrew Rectum? No. Do I want to know them? Not particularly, but thanks for asking. I really do feel connected now.
Hands up if you’re updated.
G B Hewitt. 30.4.2016