Pecker is Ged and Bev's fabulous cat. When I make an fairly infrequent visit to Liverpool, he has the same routine every time.
1) Have a big cuddle - upside down
2) Bite me (gently) for making him dance on two legs like he is doing the moonwalk
3) Go and shit next to the cat litter tray
4) Get in my travel bag and go to sleep
This is my new brown tank top. It's from the seventies. It has a round neck which is unusual. It's acrylic and keeps me hot.
What?
After the Duke of Uke show, I head home. Feeling a little hungry and having no food at home, I reluctantly venture into the local kebab shop. They are nearly closed and have nothing to eat. There is a drunk girl sitting at the back table barking at me. I think she is saying "Get chips and salad!". It seems like good advice, but they are mopping the floor and the bleach smell quells any appetite I have.
This girl, dripping lettuce, sauce and strips of meat from her mouth whilst speaking has a certain charm about her. We talk and it turned out she was a long way from home. When the smell of bleach becomes too overpowering for both of us, we walk back to mine and talked. The kebab girl, who is really named Stephanie, has been to see here friend's band, called The Horrors play. The Horrors seem to be in The Beano* rather a lot lately, but I haven't heard them yet. Stephanie tries to describe them to me, but we are walking fast and she is drunk and has the hiccups.
Well, I know what you are all thinking. However, Stephanie and I have a nice glass of wine together before I put her in a taxi home.
Stephanie writes beautifully and has some fun songs at:
www.myspace.com/stephaniesomething
*The NME
Last night in Spain,
Saint James threw his hat in the ring.
Threw the towel in, and laid his bones down
into the sands of Spain.
Last night in Spain
I lost my name
I hit the wall
I swam the flood
and came aground
Last night in Spain
I lost my head
I sailed the seas
With a chorus of angels
to Santiago
© mm7 Rob Vandeven and Nathan Jones
Tony and I, dressed in our usual sartorial splendour, alighted in Brixton for the evening's entertainment. We saw a fine trio of players who are known under the moniker The Fratellis. This rather exotic sounding group made splendid ditties and finely crafted melodies and appropriated them to electrical instruments. The ambience of the Academy was, as usual, elegant. The company jovial, if rather scruffy looking and coarse of character.
Following the excitable atmosphere of the Academy, the honourable Mr Mitchell and myself sought refreshment for our arid thirst. We found a suitable hostelry on the Coldharbour Lane, known as the Prince Albert. At this adjunct, we turned our eyes skyward, ever careful not to tilt our glasses, to look at the fair moon. She was the colour of a fair maid's lips. A deep and rosy red. Increasingly darkening like the wing of a rook, until eclipsing completely.
We stood, gentleman and paupers alike, humbled at the spectacle before us. There, our majestic sun, veiled by distant lands, held its shadow clasped upon the maiden of the sky.
The observation of the phenomena caused great strain to our noble necks, turned upwards at an unnatural angle. We sought lubrication of said anatomy, before arriving at the omnibus stand for the journey home.
