31 March 2008

Give me a London girl every time...I've got to find one,I've made up my mind...Give me a London girl every time, I want a London girl...


I'd like to address recent claims in the media about the origins of the term "Satan's Chicken". Unamed sources in the Seventh Day Adventist Church have spuriously claimed ownership of this term when, in fact, I myself am the inventor and have several witnesses who will attest to such, including one from within the Church itself. If a representative of the Church would like to step forward and dispute my ownership then by all means let them do so. Until such time, I shall continue to mock their inability to eat anything with webbed feet and if anyone has a problem with it then, in the words of The Bard: "Got an issue? Get a tissue."

For the record I also invented the terms:
  • Bi-polar bear
  • 2615, bitch
  • Aftermirth
  • Arse burgers
  • Anarchy in the Ukulele
...so if you catch anyone using them they're violating my copyright. Not the first time I've been violated, mind you, but how about buying me a drink first, huh?

People often ask me "who is Blind Phineas?" and I sigh dramatically and roll my eyes in exaggerated exasperation before telling them that according to Greek mythology, Phineas was a seer who lived in the city of Salmydessus on the Black Sea. He had the gift of prophecy (or foresight) and Zeus, king of the Gods, was pee-o'd that Phineas kept blabbing to everyone about the plans of the gods so he blinded him and banished him to an island with a buffet of food. Not so bad, you might think...but oh how pathetically naive you are, you feckin' great eejit. Phineas couldn't eat the food because each time he tried the Harpies (vicious winged women with razor-sharp talons, pendulous tah-tahs and questionable personal hygiene) would swoop down and nick it. Eventually he was divorced, err I mean, released from this torment by Jason and the Arse-kicking Argonauts. There's an analogy in there to my track record with the ladies but I'll leave it to youse all to draw it out for youseselves...

Admitedly, not all women are vicious, evil monsters with claws and wings, horrid screeching voices, BO and unrealistic expectations. I hear there are actually a couple of nice ones out there somewhere in a convent or something, flicking themselves off to Jeebus. Did you know the collective noun for nuns is 'a superfluity'? No you didn't, you pretentious lying feck!

Why is it that we always want what we can't have? My problem is I fall in love too easily, but it's always unrequited or with the wrong woman. How can they ALL be wrong? Just the other day I fell in love with the recorded voice of the woman who announces the stops on my bus. The soft lilting tones of "254...to...Holloway...Nag's Head" causes my heart to race and burns into my brain a mental picture of her perfect mouth, her soft lips, her barely-there overbite, the way her lips purse ever so slightly on the T's, and the tiny smile she gets at the corners when she says "Nag's Head". I picture us lazing in bed on a rainy morning under a duvet of Sunday papers, she inflames my passions by calling the stops and I sending her into fits of giggling by talking filthy in my best Stephen Hawking voice. But, inevitably, it doesn't work out for us becasue I'm afflicted with Cyrano de Bergerac syndrome, which means the reality of me can never hope to live up to the fantasy of me, so her affection and interest wane and I'm back to where I was: sad and lonely and riding the buses and having pathetic mental romances with recorded voice-overs...siiiiiiiigh.

It's gotten so I can't even go into the perfume section of a department store any more because one whif of perfume triggers an overwhelmingly intense scent-trip and suddenly all the painful little memories come home to roost like emotional homing pigeons to crap all over the cold hard statue of my heart. I reel from the clamour of past aches and barbs and torments and hurtful words clanging in my ears. Then I'm reminded of how long it's been since someone let me get close enough to smell them without calling the cops, and how nice it is to smell a girl's perfume on your clothes that you haven't sprayed there yourself. All of which culminates in an thudding aching fremitus of longing and despair in my chest and I have to run to the nearest KFC for some comfort fries except they don't have chicken salt over here so I'm left feeling sad and nauseous and unsatisfied. Kind of like sex, really...but less tears.

Why is it so easy to let our self-worth be determined by the rejection of strangers rather than the love of our closest friends? Why does 'wishful thinking' have to be a bad thing? I can't think of anything more lovely than wishful thinking. It means you still have hope, and that's the most precious thing of all.

2 comments:

Phil said...

remember: hope dies last!

Chris... said...

That's right! First we kill ze girl, zen ze old man, zen we kill hope! Now SIGN ZE PAPERS!