Primo Blues

When I'm not working to fill King Gordy's ever swelling coffers I sometimes make my way down to the local hostelry to sample a spot of good old dog dying blues.
The other night I caught an outfit called 'Primo Blues' These guys were as tight as a nuns knicker elastic and aside from playing some hot porch swinging blues they also threw in a goodly portion of twiddly fingered beardy jazz.
An evening of good music combined with far too many pints of Batemans 'Rosey Nosey', a fruity Christmas ale of pant ripping ferocity. Meant that the next day was spent with my head in my hands and a well placed cork. Good night though...!

Mock hunt

Its Boxing day and by George its time for a bally good hunt. This apparently is what they call a 'mock hunt' as no fox will hopefully be worried to death in the process. Instead one of the disabled riders will have his or her horse confiscated, be made to don a yellow jump suit and ordered to limp off, only to be followed a few seconds later by the rest of the hunt armed with cudgels and screaming like banshees.

The whole affair has quite an eerie feel, as these middle England horsey types are rather a secretive inbred bunch who are rarely seen after dark and mumble in tongues.
It is mooted in hushed breaths that anyone who happens across one of their hobblings will never again sire a man child!

The hunt itself was roughly an equal mix of bi and quadruped forms. In some cases to be honest it was hard to tell the difference, but as a general rule of thumb I was informed if it shits on the ground its probably a horse.

After they had all emptied their bowels and wobbled off to cudgel the freak the rest of us retired to the warmth of the snug for a foaming pint of wallop and a damned good drubbing...!

Festive merry go round...

The festive season is upon us once more and good cheer is flowing like P45's out of a Woolworth's store.
Its all lost on me though as I strictly adhere to the Ebenezer bah humbug school of thought. Visa vie that crimbo is a total waste of time and money. Its all one big advertisement for 'Noel's beard party' or that churchy programme 'Songs of bollocks'.
This is the first time in in ages I've been in the UK at Christmas and as a consequence I'm having to endure the constant peel of 'jingle bells' emanating from every well meaning orifice.
If I see one more advert for Tescos value butterball turkeys, I swear I'll butterball someones fucking arse...!

Now don't get me wrong, if you have children (which I don't) then Christmas perhaps might be a joy, who knows? I remember as a kid waiting for the clock to strike midnight whereupon I would spring out of bed like a cartoon cat and bounce on my parents bed until I was allowed to open my presents. They must have been saints. Now I just want to work over the holidays or be abroad somewhere they don't celebrate commercialism...

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