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- a member for 18 years, 9 months and 25 days
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» Teenage Parties
Hmm...
It's amazing how many people will freely admit to having been complete and utter shitheads.
I went to teenage parties (when a teenager - now I don't get invited to many). Some were cool. Most were pretty dull. I've been wasted and I've puked my guts out. Funnily enough though, I've never intentionally destroyed homes, duped friends/acquaintances into drinking more than they can take, or taken advantage of people while they were incapacitated. Strangely, I always thought that doing stuff like that would make me some kind of twat.
Suppose I must have been wrong then.
(Sat 15th Apr 2006, 13:24, More)
Hmm...
It's amazing how many people will freely admit to having been complete and utter shitheads.
I went to teenage parties (when a teenager - now I don't get invited to many). Some were cool. Most were pretty dull. I've been wasted and I've puked my guts out. Funnily enough though, I've never intentionally destroyed homes, duped friends/acquaintances into drinking more than they can take, or taken advantage of people while they were incapacitated. Strangely, I always thought that doing stuff like that would make me some kind of twat.
Suppose I must have been wrong then.
(Sat 15th Apr 2006, 13:24, More)
» Birthdays
Bit of a roundabout story, but...
So, a few months ago, for my birthday (actually the day before), I was supposed to meet up with a very good friend from the States who was coming over to London just to see me. We were going to meet up in Covent Garden, and he would buy me many expensive drinks. Sadly, his plane never left New York, as one of the passengers had a hissy fit about the terrorist lookalike sitting next to her, and it was grounded. So he calls me to tell me this, and I disappointedly start to trudge back home.
On my way to the tube to begin the hot, sweaty ride back, I was knocked down by a taxi, rushing somewhere stupidly fast. Completely unconscious, and apparently looking quite grave, I was then dashed to hospital in the very same taxi (I found this out a bit later, as I will reveal).
Wake up the next morning in a hospital bed, feeling sore, but generally alright. New scar that wasn't there before. Cast. Nothing too appalling after the initial shock. Person in the bed next to me sees I'm awake:
"Oh, so you're okay. That's a relief. You looked pretty bad".
I look across, and who should it be but Madonna, fresh from her riding accident, recuperating not 4 feet from me. Before this has a chance to sink in, someone else walks into the room and likewise expresses relief that I'm fine. None other than Mr. George Clooney, whose taxi it had been that knocked me down.
Well, not being ones to waste such an opportunity, they got the orderlies to bring in a couple of decks, and Madonna played a few tracks off her then-unreleased album for me, with Clooney singing the accompanying harmonies and dancing like a young John Travolta.
Which was nice.
(Sat 10th Dec 2005, 12:35, More)
Bit of a roundabout story, but...
So, a few months ago, for my birthday (actually the day before), I was supposed to meet up with a very good friend from the States who was coming over to London just to see me. We were going to meet up in Covent Garden, and he would buy me many expensive drinks. Sadly, his plane never left New York, as one of the passengers had a hissy fit about the terrorist lookalike sitting next to her, and it was grounded. So he calls me to tell me this, and I disappointedly start to trudge back home.
On my way to the tube to begin the hot, sweaty ride back, I was knocked down by a taxi, rushing somewhere stupidly fast. Completely unconscious, and apparently looking quite grave, I was then dashed to hospital in the very same taxi (I found this out a bit later, as I will reveal).
Wake up the next morning in a hospital bed, feeling sore, but generally alright. New scar that wasn't there before. Cast. Nothing too appalling after the initial shock. Person in the bed next to me sees I'm awake:
"Oh, so you're okay. That's a relief. You looked pretty bad".
I look across, and who should it be but Madonna, fresh from her riding accident, recuperating not 4 feet from me. Before this has a chance to sink in, someone else walks into the room and likewise expresses relief that I'm fine. None other than Mr. George Clooney, whose taxi it had been that knocked me down.
Well, not being ones to waste such an opportunity, they got the orderlies to bring in a couple of decks, and Madonna played a few tracks off her then-unreleased album for me, with Clooney singing the accompanying harmonies and dancing like a young John Travolta.
Which was nice.
(Sat 10th Dec 2005, 12:35, More)
» Scary Neighbours
I never had any trouble when I lived at home in London...
...Our neighbours were all lovely lovely people (except the guy down the street who would go out on the pavement at 3:00am and LOUDLY praise God for bringing us 'full-stops, commas, and the rest of punctuation'). This was quite a pleasant surprise sometimes, as there was a mental asylum at the bottom of our road, and you'd expect there to be a few more nutters. Sod's law, right?
No, the trouble began when I went off to uni. Got a really nice room living in a hall of residence right in the middle of town. I mean, a nice room. I was dead lucky, considering I was a first year. I thought I was fucking set.
Until I realised that my room was about 10 feet above the prime hangout for homeless-types on the main street. There was the guy with the fighting dogs. The mutually abusive couple (*bottle smashes* 'You cunt!' 'I'm not a cunt! You're a cunt!'). At 3am I'd get the noise from the kebab van that parked 30 feet away. I once got to watch two tramps fight in the street. This city is a big tourist spot, and the top deck of those open-top buses was eye-level with my open window, which they would stop in front of to talk about boring crap, all the while leaving gaping tourists to catch glimpses of me unawares. The woman with the tin whistle was a favourite. She could only play 'I am the Lord of the Dance, Said He' over and over again. It was fun.
But the best, the *best*, were the Big Issue guys. "BIG Issue..." "Big ISSUE!" "Join the smallest queue in the world!" Right. Under. My. Window.
For hours.
One of them, with an especially slurred voice, would make up fun songs!
"Big Issue! Big Issue! We all fall down!" (Repeat for half an hour non-stop)
"We all live in a TUB OF MARGERINE!"
That last one was sung to the tune of 'Yellow Submarine'. He went on for 40 minutes or so (non-stop), and I drifted off for an hour. When I woke up...he was *still* singing it. God almighty. I heard every word they ever said clear as a bell, and by the end of the year, I wanted to muder them myself with rusty knives and a vaginal speculum. Every night, I'd get to watch these 'homeless' men and women trudge their sorry way away...
...on their bikes
...and in their van
...talking on their fucking mobiles.
Many apologies for length, girth, etc
(Sat 27th Aug 2005, 10:18, More)
I never had any trouble when I lived at home in London...
...Our neighbours were all lovely lovely people (except the guy down the street who would go out on the pavement at 3:00am and LOUDLY praise God for bringing us 'full-stops, commas, and the rest of punctuation'). This was quite a pleasant surprise sometimes, as there was a mental asylum at the bottom of our road, and you'd expect there to be a few more nutters. Sod's law, right?
No, the trouble began when I went off to uni. Got a really nice room living in a hall of residence right in the middle of town. I mean, a nice room. I was dead lucky, considering I was a first year. I thought I was fucking set.
Until I realised that my room was about 10 feet above the prime hangout for homeless-types on the main street. There was the guy with the fighting dogs. The mutually abusive couple (*bottle smashes* 'You cunt!' 'I'm not a cunt! You're a cunt!'). At 3am I'd get the noise from the kebab van that parked 30 feet away. I once got to watch two tramps fight in the street. This city is a big tourist spot, and the top deck of those open-top buses was eye-level with my open window, which they would stop in front of to talk about boring crap, all the while leaving gaping tourists to catch glimpses of me unawares. The woman with the tin whistle was a favourite. She could only play 'I am the Lord of the Dance, Said He' over and over again. It was fun.
But the best, the *best*, were the Big Issue guys. "BIG Issue..." "Big ISSUE!" "Join the smallest queue in the world!" Right. Under. My. Window.
For hours.
One of them, with an especially slurred voice, would make up fun songs!
"Big Issue! Big Issue! We all fall down!" (Repeat for half an hour non-stop)
"We all live in a TUB OF MARGERINE!"
That last one was sung to the tune of 'Yellow Submarine'. He went on for 40 minutes or so (non-stop), and I drifted off for an hour. When I woke up...he was *still* singing it. God almighty. I heard every word they ever said clear as a bell, and by the end of the year, I wanted to muder them myself with rusty knives and a vaginal speculum. Every night, I'd get to watch these 'homeless' men and women trudge their sorry way away...
...on their bikes
...and in their van
...talking on their fucking mobiles.
Many apologies for length, girth, etc
(Sat 27th Aug 2005, 10:18, More)
» Airport Stories
One of many
My family now all live in the States (leaving me here on my lonesome), and we used to live in Japan, so over the course of my life I've flown many many times. Usually, something goes tits up to some degree on about every third trip. So there are plenty of stories.
The most recent, however, was me going to visit them over the summer. Get into a taxi quite early in the morning to take me to Heathrow. No problem. Check in, no problem. Arrive in departure area and decide to eat a full English breakfast, again, no problem. Usual hurdles are being overcome, so I feel great.
Get a text from a friend asking if I'm okay. Kind of weird (my friends surely don't care that much about me?) so I text back and say I am. Then I get another, from a different friend. And another. Five separate texts, the last one of which tells me that London is being bombed. 'WTF?' I think (in abbreviated netspeak, obviously). Walk calmly over to the O'Neills, where the tv is on, but no-one's watching. Oh look. There's a blown out bus. Hang on, that's a london bus...
Yes, it was the 7th July 2005. I had been in a taxi leaving London while the explosions had gone off.
Other people in the pub see me watching the tv and start to look at it as well. Mass confusion begins.
As it happens, all trouble was avoided. My plane left only a half hour late (filled with US high school students whose accompanying teachers were practically wetting themselves, poor dears). In fact, at the gate they had the foresight to put a tv, so mere seconds before boarding we were all sitting around watching the aftermath of a terrorist attack.
Though, afterward, in California, whenever people heard I'd come from London, I got sympathetic looks, hugs, and sometimes even free stuff.
Wow, sorry. That was quite long. Apologies for [insert penis joke]
(Sun 5th Mar 2006, 10:39, More)
One of many
My family now all live in the States (leaving me here on my lonesome), and we used to live in Japan, so over the course of my life I've flown many many times. Usually, something goes tits up to some degree on about every third trip. So there are plenty of stories.
The most recent, however, was me going to visit them over the summer. Get into a taxi quite early in the morning to take me to Heathrow. No problem. Check in, no problem. Arrive in departure area and decide to eat a full English breakfast, again, no problem. Usual hurdles are being overcome, so I feel great.
Get a text from a friend asking if I'm okay. Kind of weird (my friends surely don't care that much about me?) so I text back and say I am. Then I get another, from a different friend. And another. Five separate texts, the last one of which tells me that London is being bombed. 'WTF?' I think (in abbreviated netspeak, obviously). Walk calmly over to the O'Neills, where the tv is on, but no-one's watching. Oh look. There's a blown out bus. Hang on, that's a london bus...
Yes, it was the 7th July 2005. I had been in a taxi leaving London while the explosions had gone off.
Other people in the pub see me watching the tv and start to look at it as well. Mass confusion begins.
As it happens, all trouble was avoided. My plane left only a half hour late (filled with US high school students whose accompanying teachers were practically wetting themselves, poor dears). In fact, at the gate they had the foresight to put a tv, so mere seconds before boarding we were all sitting around watching the aftermath of a terrorist attack.
Though, afterward, in California, whenever people heard I'd come from London, I got sympathetic looks, hugs, and sometimes even free stuff.
Wow, sorry. That was quite long. Apologies for [insert penis joke]
(Sun 5th Mar 2006, 10:39, More)
» Crap meals out
lost_jonson
I too have suffered the evils of La Porchetta Muswell Hill! Loved the liquid pizza. Thought it seemed just a tad runny, so as an experiment I lifted one side of it. Everything on top (cheese, toppings) poured off onto the plate like soup. Nice.
This is the restaurant that became famous in the area for being featured on 'Life of Grime'-type tv shows *twice*.
(Fri 28th Apr 2006, 9:33, More)
lost_jonson
I too have suffered the evils of La Porchetta Muswell Hill! Loved the liquid pizza. Thought it seemed just a tad runny, so as an experiment I lifted one side of it. Everything on top (cheese, toppings) poured off onto the plate like soup. Nice.
This is the restaurant that became famous in the area for being featured on 'Life of Grime'-type tv shows *twice*.
(Fri 28th Apr 2006, 9:33, More)