After only having three hours sleep, being hungover (yes, again. Shut up. Yes you. You specifically. Frowny McFrownerson with your morals and that) and leaving Camarthen at 7am this morning to drive 250 miles home, there is not much brain capacity left for a blog. Don’t fret though people, people who are solely dependant on reading this blog everyday or they’ll die. People who need these words to filter through their eye holes into their brains to feed into the section of the brain called the Tiernanamus Worduloma otherwise they’ll cease breathing (this is what I like to believe in order to have a reason to keep blogging. If you tell me this is not true, I will just stop. If you ever wanted me to blog more than once a day, you would write in and tell me little Timmy has a deficient Tiernanmus Woruloma and needs at least 2500 words from me a day to stay alive. Then I’d have a sponsored blogathon where myself and several others would blog for 24 hours while shit celebrities did dances and sang, which ultimately would distract me from blogging and then Timmy would die anyway. So, in fact, don’t write in and do that. Its for the best). Yeah don’t worry all of youse types, because there will be a blog, but much like a party themed entirely on the most basic of card games, I shall keep it snappy. Yes, I could have used crocodile. Or alligator. In fact using either of those as an example instead of what I did would have made this blog snappier. Well, blogees, let it be said I am a ‘well known term’ maverick. And even blog brevity will not keep me from doing so. Look before you backflip. See? Don’t put all your eggs in a goldfish bowl and then kick it. There’s no stopping me. Deal with it.
I did something terrible today. Its only 2.30pm and already I’ve managed to gain several hell points. For some people they might seem easy, but usually, its only after dark and during drinking that I become evil Tiernan, whereas today, he appeared early. I was sitting in my car at the traffic lights when I saw across the road a rather short man in a suit. He must’ve been about 4’10” but was not of a ‘diminutive stature’ or whatever the correct term is (Smurf? or Borrower?), as he was too tall for that. He was wearing a smart grey suit with a blue tie and was carrying a grey walking stick. Now, he obviously had some sort of physical disability, which, of course should never be laughed at. Ever. You terrible people. Don’t do it. Except for this time. Because whatever was wrong meant that when he stepped his left leg forward, his right arm would go up as though he was doing jazz hands. The right leg going forward would do the same only, he’d swing his cane in the air. Every step looked as though he was parading down a staircase that would light up as he traversed it, moving to the beat of a big band. I started humming Rat Pack songs in time with his movements and he seemed to be the jazziest man around town. It was brilliant. Now, ok, I know essentially what I was doing is laughing at someone’s disability, but I like to think that I was in awe of it rather than mocking. I hope he embraces this and gets his own big band to walk everywhere he goes. Surely if you are to have some sort of physical difficulty in life, you’d want one that makes you constantly seem like the guy from Singin’ In The Rain who sings about girls. Not Gene Kelly. That other dude. Not the funny one. No and not Gene Kelly. You know the other dude. No I’m not going to IMDB it. No. You do it. NO ITS NOT GENE KELLY. Jesus. No its not him either and that’s not a funny joke. Its a dad joke. Now stop it. Part of me hopes he just walks like that because he wants to and that would be both a) brilliant and b) make me seem like less of an arsehole. Maybe we should all walk like that to make him feel ok? I’m not helping my case am I? No. Clearly not.
Though he did it unintentionally, he was one of two people who have entertained me unexpectedly in the last 24 hours. The other, who was acting quite deliberately was a big Welsh techy from Camarthen who decided I would be the sort of person to have such conversations with him like:
‘If I wear a clown suit to church, why should I be discriminated against? Just ‘cos I like dressing up like a clown, doesn’t mean I can’t like God does it? Look at the Pope. He wears a dress and a stupid hat and red shoes, yet he’s allowed in churches. But I bet if I rocked up on a Sunday wearing a clown suit they’d make me leave. A Nazi who covers up child abuse in a stupid hat and red shoes would frown upon me wearing a clown suit in a church. Its bloomin’ bonkers.’
Pretty much a flawless argument as far as I was concerned. Conversation two revolved around:
‘If people wear leather and those ‘orrible women wear foxes or minks, then I want to know why I can’t wear a dolphin jacket? All the skin of a dolphin. Or a people jacket. Its the same innit? Loads of dead dolphins from the tuna fishing. Why waste their skin? All dead people from wars and that. Its the same. We’re all mammals aren’t we? I think people’s is hypocrites.’
Brilliant. The conversational delights then continued with such subjects as to how he likes to sign into the Big Brother C4 forum under an alias, pretend he went to school with one of the contestants and say what an arsehole they were to cause trouble, why he wrote a letter to Corned Beef manufacturers about their lack of easy tin, how his friend has written letters complaining about True Blood as it shows vampires as having feelings and that would mean should we ever get attacked by vampires we will unprepared for the soulless evil creatures they actually are, and why comedians shouldn’t be allowed to use the word ‘gig’ as there is no rock involved. My personal favourite was when he asked if I like the sound of my own voice when I hear it played back to me. I said no. He then said I was using the voice other people can hear to talk to him, yet I don’t like that voice. That meant I was being rude to him and I should’ve put on an accent. Amazing.
Well done other people. You’ve been very entertaining this week. Keep it up and I can quit. Now to walk to the bank to the tune of Dean Martin’s ‘Ain’t That A Kick In The Head’. Hope that was enough words to keep you from dying. Should any of you start gasping, let me know and I’ll add a sentence or two.
