Nothing (much) To Report

The lengths people will go to for some cheese….

It may have just been my imagination, but everyone (well, OK, only about 90%) of the people in the crowd seemed to be of Australian/New Zealand type origin. The British are great at inventing sports, but then they are equally good at getting their arse kicked at aforementioned sports by people who have nothing to do with them. *humpf*

Anyway, I was just pleased to be able to get out and about in the fresh air again after spending all of Sunday feeling really quite sorry for myself (the symptoms only helped by cooking “mess in a frying pan” or, frozen hash browns and egg to you and me).

Yep – it was another night in Cafe Rene. As usual, we first annoyed ourselves by going to a horrible Whetherspoons pub in search of Perry…only to find that we actually hate the place and drunk the perry quite quickly so that we can get out of there. To be fair, we already knew that it sucks in there on a Saturday night so no lessons learnt. Again.

Cafe Rene was it’s usual self, and I actually paced  myself (well done me!) Only, I think I paced myself too well and ended up not actually that drunk at all. Yes, yes, I know technically that is what pacing yourself is…but what I mean by pacing myself is not getting so drunk that you vomit in your own hair.

For some reason they played Northern Soul *all* bloody night long downstairs. At first we hoped for a change of pace, but in the end we just had give up and start dancing to it to satisfy the drunken tapping of feet.

I was pleasantly surprised to find out on Sunday, that herself not only noticed the giant slug in the toilet downstairs, but that she’d also taken a picture of it. Well done that woman! This joy was, of course, tempered by the fact that we both woke up smelling damp and musty the next day. Ah well, better than smelling of wee I suppose.

Highlights of the evening were: telling a man he’d look great in drag, making her write her phone number in her coat pocket incase she lost her coat (that’s actually a really rather smashing thing to think of when half cut yourself), feeling the arses of some men with scouser wigs on and finding a colleague of mine slouched up against a stool at the bar pissed out of her face. Class.

The night ended with chips, as it usually does, although I didn’t actually get mine for some reason. Arses. Instead, I actually got a rather lovely Polish chap with long hair who I have since been back to Rene with - thus breaking the promise to myself of no more long hair or Polish chaps in one easy tickable list. Damn it I’m so easily led astray. (Well, he did have lovely aftershave on)

Moosh

Tags: Cafe Rene, The Regal, cheese rolling, coopers hill, polish men with long hair

Gaaah! Yes, I saw Mr Soapy T-W himself on Saturday night. In the pub. I hid.

He was with his weird friend (the silent one) who I think actually saw me as I slid further down in my chair. D’oh. Clearly, I wasn’t that drunk as I still had the ability to feel both shame and guilt at the same time. Those are normally the first 2  emotions to go after a few beers

I lost the sense of polite conversation when I proclaimed, probably a little too enthusiastically that I wouldn’t mind having a bionic penis. I feel that I should add here, that it was actually for weeing-up tree purposes. Instead, I think it was wrongly interpreted by the male contingent on the table – as they raised their glasses to me and cheered. Opps.

On the walk back to the bus station – I got accused of being a prostitute by a man in a thong! (yes, I thought that was a bit rich too) I was wearing jeans and a dress top with pointy boots – I was unaware that this was now “lady of the night” attire. Surely the jeans and boot combination would make the whole transaction a little, errr, tricky? Logistically speaking.

And funnily enough, as I’m writing this and all weekend actually I’ve had a strange pain in my side. It’s only just dawned on me that after I got home and jumped in the shower (literally) I actually managed to fall arse over tit and land on the side of the bath with my ribs. Ouchy. That explains alot.

What scares me the most though, was that last Saturday was just a “quiet birthday celebration”. Next Saturday is the Bolougne planning weekend. *cough* I dread to think of the bruises I’ll get from that.

Moosh

Tags: Men in thongs, Cafe Rene

First up, we can categorically say that there is no bottled Fruli to be had anywhere in Gloucestershire. And we checked very thoroughly on Saturday. Sure you can buy it on tap at The Retreat in lovely Stroud…but that’s no good when you want a bottle of the stuff at home to watch the Eurovision with. *humpf*

We did, however discover some very nice (alledgedly – I haven’t tried it yet) mulled white wine in M&S Food for the princely sum of 99p. We bought so much we got given a wine carrier – now that’s service.

Secondly, Verka was robbed! Ukraine really should have won the contest on Saturday. Their song and performance was clearly miles better than some bouffanted-up women writhing behind Serbia’s answer to K.D. Lang.

Further to the Russia Goodbye/Lasha Tumbai debate…I think that she did actually sneak in one “Russia Goodbye” but the rest of the song was definately “Lasha Tumbai”. It’s those rolling rrrrrrs that give those Eastern Europeans away

And finally, I can reveal that Weston-Super-Mare in the rain is possibly the most depressing place on earth. I spent the entire day in a cagoule with wet feet (very inappropriate choice of footwear. Arse – I never learn.) Thankfully the day ended better when we decided to give up birthday celebrations and just go home and drink champagne. Yay! Of course, the downside to drinking champagne in the afternoon is that it makes you snooze on the sofa in the evening and miss Simon Pegg & Nick Frost on the telly. Grrrrr.

The champagne also gave me a very profound thought for the day, but errr, the cold harsh light of day has made me forget it. *cough*

Moosh

Tags: Fruli, The Retreat, Verka Serduchka, Eurovision , Simon Pegg , Nick Frost

Rudely awakened by the Telewest/Virgin Media people at the early hour of 8.45am, I am now being subjected to aftershave levels that are well and truly off the scale – and I like aftershave.

I enjoy starting work at 8.30 (ish) because nobody normally disturbs me for a good hour and I can faff around all I like listening to music. I reeeeeally don’t like it when other people come in and insist I make coffee for them at this ungodly hour.

Saying that though, I do like the addition of men in the office (helps counteract the evening primrose effect of all the menopausal women). And it would appear (from my experience of the 3 times that they have been here) that Telewest has some kind of recruitment strategy to only employ straping young men. *rubs thighs* This is good news for office monkeys like me, always looking for an excuse to oggle people from my desk – I am ashamedly like the diet coke women.

That is all

Moosh

Tags: Telewest, diet coke break

They said it wasn’t possible: a day trip to Bruge. We proved them wrong.

This time, on June 1st we’re going to be facing the zombie hour again but only going to Boulogne. I’ve been trying to twist ‘er arm to drive to Paris – but she’s much more sensible than me and said “Noooo!” It is a tad far.

There will be much more hypermarket shopping this time and I’m looking forward to getting an Auchan card…if only to try and use it in the Moscow branch (for some reason, they call it Ashan over there)

There has been a clause written into this trip: no nervous humming whilst going through customs. I’m determined not to get stopped this time.

We’ll see.

-moosh

It may have been that some weirdly deep way of thinking was left swishing around in my soul from last week down in Glastonbury (we were in the AshTat centre, for those interested) that set me on a rather insightful thought pattern last Sunday.

No, I wasn’t just hungover or anything like that before you ask, I was just sat outside Winstones eating ice-cream up on the Common – just like every other Stroudie resident of a nice Sunday afternoon.

In front of me were some children playing, about 3 or 4 of them and with them was their Mum (or I presumed so) and she wasn’t just sat there smoking a fag or reading the paper, she was playing too. They were all just having such a laugh – doing roly polys, throwing a ball about and just generally larking about. It was the youngest girl I was watching, she must have been about 4, and it slowly dawned on me that I missed being a kid.

When did all this growing up malarky happen? Gaaah! (actually, I say that all the time – so this isn’t the profound bit)

The profound bit is: a question popped into my head, from absolutely nowhere and asked- “Given another chance, would you like to come back here?”

Woa!

I mean, I am a bit on the spiritual side – with quite an open mind to reincarnation and all that – but I’ve never thought about it happening in the future (oddly enough). To me, reincarnation seemed to be about people on Kilroy claiming to have been King Arthur.

Anyway, i duly pondered on this and am actually still pondering this now. You see, if I could have another “go” at life and come back as that little girl I saw, then yeah – I think I’d give it another shot. But it’s a gamble, ennit? I wouldn’t want to come back as me again…unless I can remember all that I know now (this is making less and less sense as I go on, isn’t it?)

I often think to myself – if I’d been here before *surely* I’d remember it. Surely? I’m telling myself now to make big mental notes to remember everything…just in-case.

BUT, having had that question pop into my head – I’m now just a teensy bit worried that I’m about to snuff it, and that perhaps I really should get around to doing all those things that I’ve wanted to do and haven’t.

Moosh

Tags: AshTat, Winstones, reincarnation, premonitions