Kentish Town Paint And Panel


Thursday, 5 September 2013


Getting drunk is fun – great fun. I love getting drunk. It's the being drunk part that's the bitch. Love the wedding. Hate the marriage.

Being drunk is like night swimming covered in a blanket while your thoughts come to you as if shouted into a distant PA system from who sounds like a Croatian rapper reading an biographical entry about your life from Wankerpedia and trying to make a case for another trip to the ATM.

I quit drinking about 9 months ago. Being sober changes people. And like all newly sober people I’m desperately trying to make sobriety a thing. Sadly it’s not a thing. It is, in fact, an absence of a thing. If you look at modern life like a pool table it sometimes feels like removing booze and its cohorts is a little like removing the white ball. The instigator has been taken off the table and slipped into a football sock and is now being used to batter the intestines out of my ability to socialize and withstand the socialization of others.

I’m not an 'alcoholic' but I quit drinking. Or is that, I stopped drinking? Quitting drinking without being an alcoholic? That’s not really anything. They say that alcoholics need to hit rock bottom before they quit. In lots of ways becoming sober was something new to do. So maybe my rock bottom was boredom. You ever hear yourself talking and think, “Shut the fuck up!” I think that’s boredom. And if that’s boredom then I did hit rock bottom. I hit it harder than Charles Saatchi hits choco-covered TV chefs with fat arses.

Being drunk isn’t an excuse for acting like a twat – but it is the reason you act like a twat. There needs to be an app developed that measures blood alcohol – not to warn you away from being a twat – Siri could lose her sexy robotic voice trying to tell a drunk chieften not to put his credit card details into a gay webcam site (just to see what it’s like) or the key into that golf cart. The app is for the aftermath not so you can make an excuse but so you can show the judge / your wife the reason why you’ve woken up on the couch with Black Bangers III looping in the DVD player and your sperm splattered belly looking like an un-sold Jackson Pollack. The reason you can’t go back to that pub with the burned down beer garden and the reason your workmates now know you're a fucking racist. Email the result to a spouse or authority figure pre chat and lay the ground work for the conversation. Give some context for why, today, you are the ruler of Kunt Kingdom. Why today your are the Emperor of Prickville.

Part of me thinks maybe I played this card a little too early though. “I’ll quit drinking” is a great one time get out of jail free card to play. Do something that can’t be fixed and play the “I have a problem with alcohol / drugs. I need help. I’ll quit.” Boom! All that AIDSy luggage is dumped into a little dinghy and set adrift. Unceremoniously kicked into the mist by a sobbing loved one - and there you are reborn. Admonished of all your sins like a big sulky baby with milky titty breath. You didn’t do it – the booze did. You’re golden.

Until you’re not…

Being sober has made me desperately uncool. All my pretentions of being one of London’s hip middle-aged crowd with interesting media contacts and touches of grey on my temples letting Groucho lunches turn into whiskey stoked 'content' deals are now dashed on the rocks like a big glug of gin and a roughly sliced lemon. That’s what sobriety does to you. It makes you unhip. Self imposed – but the opposite of hip. A nerd. At best I now come across like one of those ‘cool’ Christians. The ones who swear. The one's who 'get it'. The ones who wear GStar jeans tucked into their boots and whose crucifixes are worn on choker length chains and look more like the X-Games logo than the ancient torture device that normal Christians politely wear to give us all an early warning as to the pointlessness of the human wearing it. The ones that wait until marriage to have vagina sex but have nailed more arseholes than a San Quentin lifer named Big ‘Killer’ Tank. One of those ‘cool’ Christians. Like that one who wanted that African warlord Kony to be president and then had so much of God’s love inside him he felt the need to wank it out all over the bonnet of a Honda civic in front of news cameras. They might have a tattoo of some psalm on their ribs and a £110.00 haircut  - they might even keep quiet about their weird, insane beliefs and they might even have an inkling that their stone aged moral code is pointless kids stories but they’re hedging against hell and it helps to have some thick black lines inked on the paper to colour inside of – some rules from God to follow to save them having to have a thought in their bread filed heads - and one of those rules seems to be – Though shalt not get all mashed… (Maybe best for those people lest they actually say what they think.) And now, for all intents and purposes, like one of those lame 'happy' people.

My stories now are about what happened in life not what I made happen in life.

“Hey guys. Guys. O Mi God! I saw the funniest shape banana today! It looked like a banana but funny shaped!”

Or they’re an opinion. Just what the world needs ANOTHER OPINION!

 “Yeah. I saw the most powerful movie the other day. Iranian cinema has come a long way considering story telling is the domain of a secularist society in this day and age don’t you think? Guys? Guys?”

Look at your crappy little life. It’s probably like the prick at the next desks is. Basically the same every day. Just a series of ginger headed Mondays and re-run Wednesdays. Choosing between Pret or EAT for your lunch isn’t free will. Deciding whether or not to watch X-Factor this year or not isn’t rebelling (Okay I’ll just watch the auditions but I’m not getting sucked into this year. Not after 1D came second!). That’s where booze comes in. It’s the randomizer button. You drink the little potion and the needle skips across the record. Adventures happen. You are young! You have available funds! Your dick will get wet. You will make new friends and shed those old friends like a snakeskin of Borat catch phrases. You are an adventurer!

Until you’re not. 

Then you’re older and the adventure becomes the same adventure over and over only slightly different. Like a cheap, rushed out, straight to DVD sequel…


Di da ni neer – di na neer. Di da ni neer – di na naa neeeer!


Indiana Jones and two of his mates sit and sip their first pint.

Remember that time when…



There are now six empty pint glasses on the table. The friends have had exactly two pints each.

Shall we… Call a guy?



The same three friends are sitting round a coffee table joined by a dead eyed wastrel of a woman and her (maybe) boyfriend and some guy no one knows the name of. Lines of ‘cocaine’ are cut out on a chipped dinner plate.

And that’s when I realized. Maybe I’m too good at my job.
Maybe that’s what it is. And you know the government is controlled
By big oil – always has been. And we should all totally go and see that thing at the TATE tomorrow. You know just really get back to basics eat right and get fit. You know? She never really got me, man – we never clicked. His earlier stuff was so much better than the shit he’s pumping out now, you know.
Does anyone have a guy that will still deliver?

These are the adventures you no longer find yourself having when you are sober. Neither do you find yourself atop scaffolding pissing on a steeple or fingering a goth chick dressed in black in the back of a black cab to the tunes of Black Sabbath. It’s because when you’re sober a part of your anatomy atrophies and disappears” Your Fuckit gland becomes wizened and lifeless like the legs of a paraplegic. And you just stare at it useless and ugly but unlike a paraglegic your view isn’t even made prettier by a pair of (forever) box fresh sneakers at the bottom of the broken match sticks – your Fuckit gland just looks pathetic. My Fuckit gland used to pump blood and lava and Thor spit and I used to run the streets with the other young people holding kebabs to the sky playing roulette with our genitals and singing from the song book of the very, very drunk.

Fuck it. Fuck it Fuuuuuuu-uuuuuuuuckkkkk iiiiiii-iiiii-tttt!
(Sung to the tune of ‘One Nil’)

But now I’m sober. I listen to the songs and judge the singers. I’m (of course) now a hypocrite. It’s an inevitability that comes with sobriety. When one turns in ones jaunty-drinking-hat and is given a sober-safety-helmet one becomes the most insufferable cock sucker on the planet. Is there a human trait worse than hypocrisy? Hate is honest at least. Hypocrisy is confusing to witness. It’s plain ugly – surely uglier than an angry drunk confused by the movement, neon and the intentions of those around her and definitely uglier than a hangover. But that’s what it is. That’s what I is. A sober look at life that now can’t be avoided and without the beer goggles the bitch is sometimes plain ugly. But. But. It doesn’t matter does it? Drunk. Sober. It’s all just a long, long, looooooooong shoeless walk.

Is it better being sober than being drunk? Depends who you ask. Ask me - the privileged soft-bellied toddler with a bank balance and the a world of diamond-dusted stuff in his view -  and I'll say yes - it's at least something to fucking do. That's the irony of this life of infinite possibility and instant this and on-demand that. At least for this giant fuck-ape, the ability to do anything got boring (boo humping hoo) and the only thing that could save me from the being a 20p coin stuck in a tumble drier was the option of doing nothing.

I've been drunk since I was 16-years-old.  I guess boredom introduced me to the bottle as a teenager and pushed me away from it as an ‘adult’.


Monday, 26 August 2013

Happiness Buffet

No one’s always emailing me asking – “Hey Oli, what’s the secret to happiness?” And I choose to believe the reason I get zero emails like that is because of all the self help books out there. Everyone’s reading one. So I’m in the spirit, bitches! Although mines less of a self-help book and more of a ‘No Other Cunt Wants to Help Pamphlet’.

Wade in sad and come out drenched in happiness you fat, broke, lonely, lost, diseased loser.

Don’t Procrastinate:
Act now. Action that terrible fucking plan ASAP. The key to life I am discovering is what I’m calling THE LURCH. There’s specific momentum that occurs when one lurches from on3 self made crisis into a self imposed disciplinary phase back into breaking a soon forgotten rule into a full blown panic and freak out. If you can involve other people in your shit  -more the better – having your fucky little life collide into theirs like comet made by Fiat will really give your life shape. Sure, it’ll be the shape of David Cameron’s dead kid’s head – but it’ll be a shape.

Stay Positive:
Great advice unless you’re reading this from an AIDS ward.

Your physical Appearance:
Why does the way we look matter so much? We have a myriad ways to communicate and to differentiate ourselves. We have never been more connected to information, opinion and culture. And it’s never mattered less. Bottom line: If you’re not conventionally good looking starting hunting out a subculture.

Well Fat women have hope because everywhere there’s a fat chick there’s a black dude with a fat dick. Those dudes don’t care! That song ‘baby got back’ it seems like it’s just indiscriminate back. It’s not shapely back – just back. It’s back with an empty swimming pool in it with a drowned fox rotting in the 6 inches of water at the bottom. So fat chicks are cool. Fat dudes: that’s tough. No one is really fetishizing you guys. There aren’t female ‘feeders’ unless you count the women with such low self esteem they try for the heart through the stomach. A sure way to make a man subconsciously think you’re his mother and a sure way to be treated like a prison cell mate in the relationship. Fat men just look like giant toddlers who shop at Gravy Gap – some people are still saying it’s their glands but seriously – How many fucking glands are you eating every day?

Also: Pick a hair cut and try to get good at asking for it. The shitness of your request is directly proportionate to the tardiness of your mop. I should know: I look like an over zealous, racist policeman after a night of beating whores with a mag-light.

Simple. Some people are richer than you – some are poorer than you. The key here is to ‘compare down.’ Don’t read those fucking magazines HELLO or GRAZIA and don’t go to central London. Read ‘Readers Wives’ on a bus in Croydon.

I think the general rule here is ‘don’t do it’. But come on. If you’re over 40 and God took a shit on a pile of fleas and called that your life then who really gives a fuck? Now it’s just about two choices. How much clean up do you leave behind? Was the final straw something to do with your wife having an affair with the married dude at her work? Then shoot the dude in the spine and then blow your brains out all over his kids! He’s paralyzed and they have ‘issues’. For example… If not then swallow some pills and lay down in a pine box. If you’re a teenager or a child then that truly is a waste. If you’re a teenager who’s ready to die there are all sorts of opportunities out there for you that can benefit others and some of them don’t involve slipping things into your arsehole on a webcam. 

10 minutes in the past. 10 minutes into the future. That’s the way to live. You don’t see many unhappy retards do you? People with Downs are always smiling. Live like a fucking Wildebeest. Wildebeest have a kid. The kid gets chased down and eviscerated in front of them and they’re eating grass 10 minutes later like nothing happened. They are the toughest vegetarians on the planet.

What other people think:
No one is thinking about me or you. This is both the cause of our problems and the salvation. This is the only benefit of being a fucking NOTHING CUNT.  People are thinking about celebrities and having an argument in their heads with some prick at work – replaying it but changing what they said to what they wanted to say, “Fuck you Sandra with hairy lipped bitch. I hope you get tit cancer!” - instead of swallowing their coffee flavoured saliva and their pride and letting the words, "Sure I’ll get right onto that” slide out of their weak mouth which is only good only for giving half arsed blow jobs to a bored just stiff enough spouse with the 10’oclock news still playing in back ground - talking about gassing Syrian children.

No ones thinking of you. No one gives a shit. You’re free! You wanna be a homosexual who only fucks men dressed as women – brilliant. You wanna collect dolls heads – get on Ebay, Ken!  You wanna be a cowboy? Take that noose from the ceiling and turn it into a lasso! You wanna be a CEO of your own company. Put the stationary order in now. It can happen! You can be happy. You can be what ever you want.*

*That last bit is bullshit. Most of you are fucking talentless you can BE a taxpayer and then a dead person.

Friday, 16 August 2013

Would It Fit In Chef Gordon Ramsey's Arse?

The quick answer is YES. Not only would Scott Schuman fit up his arse The Sartolialist would make Chef Ramsey's arse more directional. I think Scotty with the camera would look great up Chef Gordon Ramsey's arse. And while he was up there could pap Anna Wintour who we shoved up in an earlier post.

To really push the boundries - maybe Chef Ramsey could let little Scott's legs wiggle free and poke out of his arse like when high powered politicians (or low powered whores) have butt-plugs rammed up their exit chutes with a horses tail on the end and then prance around the bedroom with a cardboard tube kitchen towel Sellotaped to his head pretending to be unicorns squealing, "Look at me - I'm a mystical magical creature." Before they break down and need to be comforted / given a line of K mixed with dried furniture polish... or whatever the kids are taking these days.

Anyway - brown is the new black.

Give it a name, bitch.

The problem we have as a bunch of people is that we are completely superficial. Everything we do is for show or because we are scared. We are little translucent beings inside a slab of monster person-meat looking out the eye-holes with two levers in front of us - one says FEAR and one says PUSSY. And we yank away at these two little levers making the meat-slab dance or eat or shut the fuck up in a meeting or wipe it’s arse or get a haircut or dab at the corner of it’s mouth while cancer climbs up its leg from the inside and turns its lung into a home for horny spiders.


So embracing that superficiality I have decided to become a NAMER. It’s a thing. What? Look, none of the jobs you have now even existed 20 years ago you ‘Freelance Social Media Content Editor Creationalist Ideator Chieftain’. Here’s a hint: if you type your job description into your computer and spell check identifies a word that isn’t a word – that angry little squiggly line under that made up nonsense word means that you and I need not call each other on our respective bullshit or this whole house of cards will tumble down faster than a clothing factory in Bangladesh. So fuck you – I’ve pulled the PUSSY leaver and I’m all horny to be a NAMER to impress people (that I’m scared of) at parties that I hate being at.

NAMERS are increasingly more important as the world becomes more crowded and less differentiated. The key reason for the role is to make things seem different or better even though they are exactly the same or, in most cases, worse.

The NAMERS best tool is to push two words together to make one word EG: ‘Edutainment’. It was invented by some French dollop who pushed breakfast and Lunch together and made Brunch – and also made a legion of girls happy and got the fucking Bellini invented at the same time. I’m not gonna be one of them.

I want to invent names for things that don’t have names. That’s manly. Then I want to do some sort of content deal with Google and make it so people have to pay everytime one of my words shows up in a document or on a video or some shit. But I’ll let the lawyers hash that out.

So here you go. My first 15 names for things. I’ll probably do more because my life is empty.

PISTAFORS: When you piss someone else’s shit off the bowl at work.

KRELP: The words you write in a in a cafĂ©… in a moleskin.

ZODICKS: People that read horoscopes to other people.

ATROPHILLAS: Conversations about dreams your work mate forces you to listen to.

ZAPAATE: That gnawing feeling that you’re wearing the wrong shoes for the pants.

BALLTRUM: The cocks you draw on post it notes while your life passes you by at work.

HAGARRSAM: That mean mirror that highlights every line and wrinkle on your pasty old face.

FRIED: Pan Seared.

CRUTTLE: The promises you make to people to you just met while on high on cocaine to… “Totally go see / do / lend you / send you / introduce you to / remember you / ”

DENTRALL: The realisation that apathy is your most likeable and memorable trait.

CLENCT: The intense hatred you have of other races that you’re sure, because it’s you, isn’t actually racism.

RUNTLE: The pathetic voice your voice turns into when you’re talking to clients.

DECIMETOR: The habitual checking and rechecking of your bank balance online.

CHOAD: The ejaculate you spill onto the carpet of the hotel room before you do anything – including unpack.

FAPPOR: That sinking drop you feel when the flavour leaves your chewing gum.

A DENNIS: Straight guys that actually like having their nipples tweaked and their balls tugged on during sex.

 PS: I’m on twitter today writing #YOLOPOEMS

Tuesday, 13 August 2013

There's no reasonable explanation for why I have this image #1


Yucky Orangutan. Lonely Orangutan.

Monday, 12 August 2013

I don’t have kids – but that doesn’t make me a bad Father.

I have looked at kids and I have looked at the adults that kids inevitably become and nothing I have seen in either species has given me good reason to want to stop ejaculating on my wife’s breasts.

Kids are as annoying as being stuck in a hot car with the windows up listening to that Jamie Theakston breakfast radio if the show consisted only of his links and the car insurance ads. And the adults that kids become are basically people like me – and I’m a selfish cry-baby white man who expresses himself through ‘opinions’ about the world around me that I know nothing about. Does society need more of me? Fucking hell – I’m bored of me. And for someone bored of a subject I sure do think about that subject a shit load. Me. Me. Me. Me. I don’t know if it’s just I or do you also share this crippling sense of self-importance? (that’s obviously rhetorical.)

There is one reason I think having a kid would be a good idea: Having kids forces awful spoon-fed, dick-smokers like me to change the subject and end the feedback loop of self-absorption. It would be like a holiday to not have to think about myself for more than 60 seconds let alone for 18-years.

So with that in mind maybe my next pitiful sparrow sneeze of an orgasm will be aimed at my wife’s brat-motel instead of her tits.

The other thing I need to reconcile about having the little pussy-wreckers is this: I’ll be dead in the next 5 years. I have treated my body like a haunted amusement park since I started having disposable income and it got worse from the moment I got a mobile phone and drug-dealers phone number. I have smoked and I have drunk things - so many things and, when it comes to sex, lets just say my arsehole hasn’t been strictly exit only. So I give it 5 years (7 tops) before my body pulls back the curtain to reveal dick cancer or a heart attack or one of those strokes that melts your face and makes your family’s life hell (which is worse than proper death).

This (very welcome) death would subsequently leave my poor kid or kids fatherless and without guidance. So, in the interests of being a good father, here are 5 pieces of advice for them from beyond the grave.

Daughter: Most of this advice will be about avoiding sexual mishap. Because you’re my daughter and you’ll probably be a slut.

1.     Get awesome at hand jobs fast: Seriously. It’ll stop dudes from trying to rub their filthy Lynx smelling boy-boy’s all over you and stop you from having that pregnancy-chic look at school. No dude is going to stop you from doing it and as soon as they’ve cum they’ll leave you alone… and probably just leave. You alone.
2.     Everything you say or do with a teenaged guy will go in their wank-bank: remember that when you’re eating a banana in public or holding onto the pole in a crowded tube carriage.
3.     Never go out with someone older than you until you’re in your twenties: And once you’re in your 20’s only go out with dudes older than you. Guys in their twenties are fucking douche bags.
4.     Never date a guy who owns a snake or keeps wet wipes by his bed: Does this need explanation?
5.      Don’t lie to your mother: You want her in your life because she’s cool as fuck and you haven’t proven yourself to be cool just yet. Learn from her then inflict yourself on the world properly.

Son: You’re a dude so you should be fairly bullet proof. It’s mostly about the friends you choose, the way you handle yourself when you’re wasted and your personal hygiene.

1.     When forming your crew think about Scooby Doo (Youtube that shit). You want that amount of diversity. A stoner, a gay jock, a bookish lesbian, a hot blonde and you – Scooby. This will make your parties fun when you’re young and your shared holidays bearable when you’re middle aged.
2.     Drugs are fun: Do ACID about 10 times and stop smoking pot at 25. Ecstasy is AWESOME (the clue’s in the name - it aint called ‘QUITE-GOOD’) and Coke is best mixed with booze, porn and sex.
3.     If you’re Gay lean into that shit early: Being in the closet is gay and not cool. Being Gay looks like it’s super fun and not gay (the word ‘gay’ gets used wrong all the time). Your Mum won’t give a fuck and neither will anyone else. Most people are only worried about them selves (see intro).
4.     Don’t learn Caipoera: It’s for attention seeking idiots and you’ll get your face smashed in if you try to fight someone with that Zumba noise.
5.      Keep you fucking room clean: Make your bed everyday and keep your room mould free. It’s nice to come home to and makes people respect you a little more than the next little prick.

I love you, Dad.


Friday, 2 August 2013



I've spent the morning customising denim jacket I own with a Sharpie. I've drawn a pretty baddass Public Enemy logo on the back panel and I'm colouring that bitch in now. There's a lot to colour in. I have a black sharpie with nib that's too thin for the task.

The fumes of a sharpie are potent - I'm starting to have what feels like a mild acid trip. 

I wonder what the sun looks like from the back?


Awwww Fuck! I Forgot about Dre!!!!


How long okay to spend looking at someone you kind of know's profile? 

How many months/ years is it okay to trawl back through photos of 'friends' looking for holiday snaps?

Is it ever okay to yell out, "Holy fuck-mouth they have weird looking kids! This little guy looks like a future murderer that will homosexually entrap men and then use power tools on the genitals, film it and make the victim watch the video while he hums the theme song the Archers in his blood soaked ear"...?

How many photos are too many to have pulled out of albums, doctored in photoshop and put onto Readers Wives websites - without changing the names?

How many people can you curse using special witchcraft software you downloaded from the corridors of the 'dark web'.

What's the best way to leave a public library computer streak free and devoid of DNA after a 'session?'

What day is it tomorrow?


The following is a true story: Last night I had a dream that I was doing stand-up and all my jokes were about distance. My brain made up about five jokes about distance. Then that part of my set was over and I said: "Thanks for listening to my SHORT jokes about distance"...

I'm waiting for wife to leave home so I can yell at the TV and cry into her dressing gown.

My carrot consumption is through the roof. Also there is a spider in my fridge.


Fill the dishwasher. Empty the dishwasher. Fill the dishwasher. Empty the dishwasher. Repeat. This is both my actual life and also a metaphor for life: It's as If I was basketball legend 
Michael Jordan and I said to my friend whilst playing Hacky Sack (as Michael Jordan) - "Man you crazy! You aint beating me! I'm the Michael Jordan of Hacky Sack." Actuality and metaphor. As an object in ones life, the dishwasher is a maddening beast. It shows the passing of time and and the futility of our existence. Those are the two main things it shows and for the purposes of this post we'll keep the metaphor singular or else we'll get sprawling.

The dishes are clean. The dishes are dirty. The dishes are clean... dirty. Is life the dishes or is life happening to the dishes and is the dirt life and the soap death? And if that's the case am I simply watching life and death pass through my hands powerless to halt the inevitability of it and is my existence a mere function of the two ends of the spectrum? Am I just a conduit? A dirtier of the dish and a filler of the dishwasher. And what indignity. To be unable to enjoy the dirty IKEA plate of life because one is constantly having to think about the fact that, at some point, the plate is going to have to go into the dishwasher and you - me -we are the ones that will have to put it there.

Also it's super annoying how it BEEEP BEEEEP BEEEEP's at the end of every cycle.


In the cavemen days when cavemen had some time between jobs cavemen would put dow their cutting rocks and lie on their backs to look up at the sky and take some time to stare at the clouds. White and fluffy shapes against the immense blue heavens.

"That one look look like tree." One would say.
"That one look like Mammoth." One would say back.

"That one look look like other type of tree."
"That one look like smaller Mammoth."


I was just looking at the sky and I saw a Foosball table, a set of GHD hair straighteners, a stapler, a snow plough and the spitting image of Angelina Jolie's Asian kid - the one with the mohawk.

The cavemen days were simpler times.


My attention span is coming back. 

Years of trying to zone out of conversations about 'engagement' ideas and years of forcing myself to rifle through 100's of images on fffound and videos on Youtube to 'come up with' the next ad or hit-and-hope 'viral' has trained my brain to be cat-like. When I say cat-like the cat that it's like has been put into a room with some wolves, fireworks, toddlers and vacuum cleaners and the cat is now shitting and pissing everywhere as it runs up the walls trying to find somewhere safe to have a stroke and die.

But now my attention span is coming back and I love it.

Yesterday I read a recipe to the end before I started cooking instead of trying to guess how to make it from the picture - who knew pies had fillings? Before that I made it past 12 on a Buzzfeed top 20 list - they save the funniest one for last! And I'll tell you man-to man, my bum hole hasn't been this properly wiped since my mother was still doing it - in my teens.

(I've often been wiping and just stopped. Not because my sphinker was clean - just because I got distracted and a bit bored. It's not til the water runs brown in the shower later that you realise what a poor job you've done.)


Also FYI: Leaning over someones child in a park and saying, "Hello little girl. You have a pretty dress." in a South African accent can come across as creepy.


This morning I woke up singing: 

"The only smell that could ever wake me - was the smell of the pizza van."

To the tune of Preacher Man by Aretha Franklin. 

I wish I could come up with awesome shit like that when I was awake.

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