And You Will Know Me By My Trail Of Snot
Sorry for the lack of updates recently, and the slight postponement of the third installment in the Album Review Compendium. This has been partly due to spending a large part of the weekend drowning in a river of my own mucus. The poor cat is still refusing to come down from atop the tallest cupboard in the house until she's sure that the ghastly green ooze has gone away for good. I guess this is payback time for teasing the (temporarily?) departed Robyn about her never-ending litany of minor ailments, as in her absence I am turning into the sickliest blogger on the block.
Still, enough about me: what do you think this is, a diary page? And yet there are still people who ask what it is that Dead Kenny does all day except read the best books, listen to the best music and watch the best DVDs around. The answer, sadly, is plenty, but 95% is pretty dull and the 5% that isn't I'm keeping schtum about until my autobiography (what, you mean you're a blogger without a book deal? How 2002!).
But occasionally my online persona and real life does co-incide, so perhaps you're due a brief account of Friday night when I descended into the bacchalanian brouhaha of Birmingham's beerhalls with Ben and Andy to help console Vicky on the unfortunate misjudgement of buying a ticket to go and see Kaiser Chiefs. Talking of the Chiefs, did you see their witless performance on Popworld on C4? They're not remotely funny and seem to have nothing to say whatsoever: Ricky Wilson & Co. aren't even to fit to lick Damon Albarn's boots, let alone kiss Jarvis Cocker's arse. And yes, I'm only being vaguely complementary (relatively speaking) about the ex-Blur frontman because you have to feel a little bit compassionate about somebody who forms a cartoon franchise to sell faceless, catchy dancepop to unsuspecting kids and...the single can only droop into No. 22, three places behind the third single off the Interpol LP! Put your money on a tearful reunion with Graham Coxon by Xmas.
But anyway, where was I? Ah yes, Birmingham on a Friday night, when I was more full of phlegm than my usual vim, and indeed, vigour, and more bunged up than a Premiership manager with brown paper bags stitched into the lining of his designer trenchcoat. Was greeted at New Street at 8pm by a bevy of (predominantly Asian) babes who were doing a very good job of looking like they were waiting for relatives, but judging on some of their half-expectant glances in yours truly's direction, one suspects were actually there to greet their internet dates. One of those days then, when a crumpled copy of the NME and a room booking at The Burlington might have come in handy.
However, given that I was running late, and that I was feeling hungrier for food than ladylove for once, I headed straight for Burger King where I plumped for a Chicken Royale without 'the mill' option (I mean, who wants salt and pepper on their patty, ffs?). I seemed to be getting quite a bit of attention from the good ladies of Birmingham as I chomped down the cutprice chicken feast, although I realised later that I had overestimated my sexual allure and they were in fact looking at the sliver of lettuce and mayonnaise that had dripped down the front of my coat. Also got a bit anxious about the large gentleman hovering behind me with little regard for my personal space, so I edged away slowly as I'm all in favour of wealth distribution through an intelligently-managed taxation system, but don't want anyone shortcutting things out of my back pocket, thank you very much. He then looked at me in disgust as he indicated via his middle finger that he was merely trying to get a signal out of his mobile phone. Touchier than de-linked bloggers, some people, I tell you.
Moved on quickly to the pub where I spent the time waiting for Ben and Andy contemplating should I ever be fortunate enough to enjoy carnal relations with the foxy mixed-race barmaid, who exactly would be corrupting whom? My higher philosophical musings were then rudely interrupted by my erstwhile online chums who insisted on talking about political and cultural matters, albeit in the lucid and entertaining manner of which I'm sure many of you are familiar. Then moved on to a pub called The Wellington round the corner, which had a fine selection of real ales, where we met up with Vicky (far too attractive to be left in the hands of Scotsmen) and her excitable companion whose credibility evaporated the moment he revealed he was an Aston Villa fan.
I'm sure Vicky will give a detailed review of the Kaiser Chiefs debacle on her website (well, she'll have to, now, won't she?) but she did comment that she'd moved from being somewhere where she was clearly the oldest to a pub where she was just about the youngest. This prompted her companion to suggest we all, um, encamped, to a nearby gay club. Feeling much more in the mood for lemsip than leather chaps, and more determined than ever that the only thing to be shoved up my bum that night was Matron's thermometer, your correspondent politely declined but Ben and Andy responded with such surprising enthusiasm that maybe a turning point in their lives was on the horizon. I would, of course, have followed along with my notebook and cameraphone for blackmail purposes, but my train and duvet beckoned, and beyond that, the veritable flood of nasal detritus that would envelop the rest of my weekend.
So the last word of the evening went to Ben. 'Whatever else you do', he advised sternly after emerging from the gents to reveal a quick change into a rather fetching cowboy outfit*, 'don't write about this on your blog'.
Oh, heaven forbid.
*The real ale may have been getting to me at this point, fact fans.
Sorry for the lack of updates recently, and the slight postponement of the third installment in the Album Review Compendium. This has been partly due to spending a large part of the weekend drowning in a river of my own mucus. The poor cat is still refusing to come down from atop the tallest cupboard in the house until she's sure that the ghastly green ooze has gone away for good. I guess this is payback time for teasing the (temporarily?) departed Robyn about her never-ending litany of minor ailments, as in her absence I am turning into the sickliest blogger on the block.
Still, enough about me: what do you think this is, a diary page? And yet there are still people who ask what it is that Dead Kenny does all day except read the best books, listen to the best music and watch the best DVDs around. The answer, sadly, is plenty, but 95% is pretty dull and the 5% that isn't I'm keeping schtum about until my autobiography (what, you mean you're a blogger without a book deal? How 2002!).
But occasionally my online persona and real life does co-incide, so perhaps you're due a brief account of Friday night when I descended into the bacchalanian brouhaha of Birmingham's beerhalls with Ben and Andy to help console Vicky on the unfortunate misjudgement of buying a ticket to go and see Kaiser Chiefs. Talking of the Chiefs, did you see their witless performance on Popworld on C4? They're not remotely funny and seem to have nothing to say whatsoever: Ricky Wilson & Co. aren't even to fit to lick Damon Albarn's boots, let alone kiss Jarvis Cocker's arse. And yes, I'm only being vaguely complementary (relatively speaking) about the ex-Blur frontman because you have to feel a little bit compassionate about somebody who forms a cartoon franchise to sell faceless, catchy dancepop to unsuspecting kids and...the single can only droop into No. 22, three places behind the third single off the Interpol LP! Put your money on a tearful reunion with Graham Coxon by Xmas.
But anyway, where was I? Ah yes, Birmingham on a Friday night, when I was more full of phlegm than my usual vim, and indeed, vigour, and more bunged up than a Premiership manager with brown paper bags stitched into the lining of his designer trenchcoat. Was greeted at New Street at 8pm by a bevy of (predominantly Asian) babes who were doing a very good job of looking like they were waiting for relatives, but judging on some of their half-expectant glances in yours truly's direction, one suspects were actually there to greet their internet dates. One of those days then, when a crumpled copy of the NME and a room booking at The Burlington might have come in handy.
However, given that I was running late, and that I was feeling hungrier for food than ladylove for once, I headed straight for Burger King where I plumped for a Chicken Royale without 'the mill' option (I mean, who wants salt and pepper on their patty, ffs?). I seemed to be getting quite a bit of attention from the good ladies of Birmingham as I chomped down the cutprice chicken feast, although I realised later that I had overestimated my sexual allure and they were in fact looking at the sliver of lettuce and mayonnaise that had dripped down the front of my coat. Also got a bit anxious about the large gentleman hovering behind me with little regard for my personal space, so I edged away slowly as I'm all in favour of wealth distribution through an intelligently-managed taxation system, but don't want anyone shortcutting things out of my back pocket, thank you very much. He then looked at me in disgust as he indicated via his middle finger that he was merely trying to get a signal out of his mobile phone. Touchier than de-linked bloggers, some people, I tell you.
Moved on quickly to the pub where I spent the time waiting for Ben and Andy contemplating should I ever be fortunate enough to enjoy carnal relations with the foxy mixed-race barmaid, who exactly would be corrupting whom? My higher philosophical musings were then rudely interrupted by my erstwhile online chums who insisted on talking about political and cultural matters, albeit in the lucid and entertaining manner of which I'm sure many of you are familiar. Then moved on to a pub called The Wellington round the corner, which had a fine selection of real ales, where we met up with Vicky (far too attractive to be left in the hands of Scotsmen) and her excitable companion whose credibility evaporated the moment he revealed he was an Aston Villa fan.
I'm sure Vicky will give a detailed review of the Kaiser Chiefs debacle on her website (well, she'll have to, now, won't she?) but she did comment that she'd moved from being somewhere where she was clearly the oldest to a pub where she was just about the youngest. This prompted her companion to suggest we all, um, encamped, to a nearby gay club. Feeling much more in the mood for lemsip than leather chaps, and more determined than ever that the only thing to be shoved up my bum that night was Matron's thermometer, your correspondent politely declined but Ben and Andy responded with such surprising enthusiasm that maybe a turning point in their lives was on the horizon. I would, of course, have followed along with my notebook and cameraphone for blackmail purposes, but my train and duvet beckoned, and beyond that, the veritable flood of nasal detritus that would envelop the rest of my weekend.
So the last word of the evening went to Ben. 'Whatever else you do', he advised sternly after emerging from the gents to reveal a quick change into a rather fetching cowboy outfit*, 'don't write about this on your blog'.
Oh, heaven forbid.
*The real ale may have been getting to me at this point, fact fans.
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