Sex.on.pedels.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Original Eindhoven Script
Right, here's the original blog left at 2.00am Tuesday morning. Thank god for the dole and alcohol oh and the fact we have no jobs/lives. Read it here
left my jacket in Hogans Bar
Jaysus.
Met Liz for a quick 5 o clock scoop after I picked up me cheque for 40 Euro (thanks First Direct for reducing your rates and paying us even less, even though they don't take a pay cut and we all have to work harder, thanks). Obviously with my lined pockets I could afford a few beers. Liz got her grant cheque too so I thought she was good to cough up a few pints. We met a few boys and Liz pretended that she fancied one of them so he would buy her a drink.
He didn't, even when she asked.
I would like to think that this was a low moment of hers but she managed to get through it gracefully. Instead I lashed a few on my laser card so were grand. 6 hours later Christine Beep Beep shows up and manages to bring me home. Even though I had my head up me hole. Thanks Chris. And for the breakfast, and I told you I wouldn't go near you so relax.
No jacket. Did the walk of shame back to Hogans bar to pick up my green jacket that I have left there in a total of four times. Same jacket, same guy.
Luckily Chris had the Bruce foresight not to let me cycle home. So my bike left in the rain for the day had an orange glow around the key areas to greet me as I hopped on.
I cant remember who I was talking to in the pub but at one stage when I answered my phone, it slipped out of my hand hitting a girl in the back behind me, crashing on the floor. That was only at 6.30pm. By 12am I was hallucinating while simultaneously seeing into the future.
Liz legged it a bit earlier only after she chased that guy(who didn't by her a drink) off into the secret bar. Legend.
Met Liz for a quick 5 o clock scoop after I picked up me cheque for 40 Euro (thanks First Direct for reducing your rates and paying us even less, even though they don't take a pay cut and we all have to work harder, thanks). Obviously with my lined pockets I could afford a few beers. Liz got her grant cheque too so I thought she was good to cough up a few pints. We met a few boys and Liz pretended that she fancied one of them so he would buy her a drink.
He didn't, even when she asked.
I would like to think that this was a low moment of hers but she managed to get through it gracefully. Instead I lashed a few on my laser card so were grand. 6 hours later Christine Beep Beep shows up and manages to bring me home. Even though I had my head up me hole. Thanks Chris. And for the breakfast, and I told you I wouldn't go near you so relax.
No jacket. Did the walk of shame back to Hogans bar to pick up my green jacket that I have left there in a total of four times. Same jacket, same guy.
Luckily Chris had the Bruce foresight not to let me cycle home. So my bike left in the rain for the day had an orange glow around the key areas to greet me as I hopped on.
I cant remember who I was talking to in the pub but at one stage when I answered my phone, it slipped out of my hand hitting a girl in the back behind me, crashing on the floor. That was only at 6.30pm. By 12am I was hallucinating while simultaneously seeing into the future.
Liz legged it a bit earlier only after she chased that guy(who didn't by her a drink) off into the secret bar. Legend.
Friday, January 30, 2009
Handwoven in Eindhoven part 1
Basically our original plan (Liz and I) was to let a tidal wave of abuse let rip on the couriers, the male couriers. about their guilt, shame and sensitive alcoholic emotional natures. But as I said we ended up talking about Martini and calling everyone fucking cunts. So it might not read well.
We started off with our tales on Eindhoven and how we hit critical mass at this vital batch. I arrived from Utrecht with Murph, meeting her the day before it started with the rest of the posse.
I had been away from them for eight weeks lapping it up in my parents gaff in France(thats another post). My plan was to cycle from Paris where the pre event was, however the morning I awoke to follow the thirty something riders in District 18, I couldnt feel my legs. I crashed viciously the night before and drank most of my body weight in cheap as fuck French larger. Instead I followed the usual path of least resistance and got the train the next day with Murph. (thats also another post, fucking epic)
Cut to the end, I met Liz, the lads, the other lads, the Scottish lads, the American girl, the London lads, the older lads, the robbing lads and the new lads. oh and the Danish lads (sorry Liz). We got really messy and had a million adventures. some of which I'll post later.
Right now I have to go up to the base and pick up my cheque for a half days work a week ago. Che ching.
We started off with our tales on Eindhoven and how we hit critical mass at this vital batch. I arrived from Utrecht with Murph, meeting her the day before it started with the rest of the posse.
I had been away from them for eight weeks lapping it up in my parents gaff in France(thats another post). My plan was to cycle from Paris where the pre event was, however the morning I awoke to follow the thirty something riders in District 18, I couldnt feel my legs. I crashed viciously the night before and drank most of my body weight in cheap as fuck French larger. Instead I followed the usual path of least resistance and got the train the next day with Murph. (thats also another post, fucking epic)
Cut to the end, I met Liz, the lads, the other lads, the Scottish lads, the American girl, the London lads, the older lads, the robbing lads and the new lads. oh and the Danish lads (sorry Liz). We got really messy and had a million adventures. some of which I'll post later.
Right now I have to go up to the base and pick up my cheque for a half days work a week ago. Che ching.
sapenger
Liz and myself attempted to publish a blog on Monday night. However, when morning broke and her cat jumped on my head, we awoke to a brain fog that eliminated any memory of user name and password. I think it was somthing about lasgana in a gutter but I cant remember.
I only called over for a glass of wine.
But when I got there her wine was shit. Luckily, I had a few cheap cans in my bag.
After we drank that and pretended to talk meanfully to each other, We rolled a million joints (as she poured brandy into my leftover-christmas-drink Baileys) and we set to work on our amazing travel log of the ECMC's in Eindhoven.
However, it ended in her mashing the keyboard and trailing off about an advert on the tele from the eighties.
When I find it online I'll publish it.
The heading of this Blog was inspired while I was talking to John. He said that if you could sell salvation to Irish people to remove the inherent guilt that is instilled on us, we could make a fortune. Which wouldn't work because we haven't any money.
Still, this idea got my pistons firing. Why do Irish people have so much guilt. I mean its not just a Catholic thing is it? Is it because, us unlike the Spanish say, are constantly pissed, running to the pub to avoid confrontation, incapable of appreciating any successful others as we secretly loathe ourselves?
Maybe not. But those shower of rich cunts in their Jeeps do my fucking head in.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)