Tuesday, 27 October 2009

The first of the big gay emo posts.

Fuckin' fuck. I've just come in from those nights where everything that happened was completely half-arsed and apathetic, and by the end of the night you feel like shite for reasons you don't fully understand. However, tonight has opened my eyes somewhat. I realised that I am a desperately shy person, and I have absolutely no balls (not literally, I definitely still possess testicles). I am far too content to just wait for things to happen; things that all too often cannot be anticipated or expected. I am so afraid of failure that I cannot summon the courage to bite the bullet and go for it. My problem is that I try to be too nice, too polite, too unassertive and reserved.

Maybe I'm talking shite 'cos I'm half-cut, maybe I'm actually talking sense (for once), I'm not too sure. All I know is that I'm not happy and I'm not sad. I'm not quite sure what I want anymore.

I'm sure I'll regret this big gay emo post in the morning but right now I don't really give a fuck. Balls to this.

*Sorry you had to read that pile of balls. I was going to edit it completely, but I shall keep it to remind me to never be a half-cut emo faggot ever again.*

Saturday, 3 October 2009

Absinthe-fuelled golf course ballbaggerry

When you start the night enjoying a pre-swal carry out with yer mates on the green of the first hole on a golf course, you know you're in for a good one. For some reason, drinking excessive amounts of Budvar and cheap cider turns one into a physical juxtaposition. In this case our resident gammy handed lanky streak of pish (Matthew McKeown) decided, in a fit of drunken yet crusty eco-warrior influenced rage, that it would be a fantastic idea to release the deer (that are kept in a field beside the course) from their oppressive enclosure by breaking down the fence and letting them run wild and free. Thankfully he was too pajama'd to break down the fence and we weren't mauled by a herd of stampeding deer. So sullen and defeated, he stumbled away and retired to a spot of flag-pole javellin.

Suitably oiled from our interesting pre-swal, we sauntered into our venue for the night. Talk about a fucking creche, some of the attendants could qualify as my offspring. However this didn't deter a 20-odd year old father of two that I spoke to at the start of the night, who when asked for his opinion on the creche situation, replied with "Here mate, if there's grass on the pitch". He was definitely a bit of a Hot Baby Roy.

I can't really comment accurately on the rest of the night because my memory is heavily obscurred after Burnside generously (some would argue too generously) shared his bottle of straight Absinthe with me. Initially I felt all kless and bohemian because Oscar Wilde and the rest of those arty Victorian fruits drank it. However, fast foward 20 minutes and I find myself draped over a wall, boking my ring up. I almost certainly acted like a ballbag for the majority of the remaining two or so hours of which I have no recollection. Consequentially the following morning (this morning) was just horrific. I woke up equally as pished as when my head hit the pillow the night before. Beyond desperate.

All in all, a brilliant night was had. Bring on Rugby Club like (...christ).