Bloody newsagents…

I got my Sunday newspaper on Saturday – I called the newsagent to complain and he said that I was mistaken and it was Sunday. I said that it was definitely Saturday. He repeated that it was definitely Sunday. I said that his mother had sex with farmyard animals. He then got very abusive for no reason whatsoever, so I threatened to call the police – but I couldn’t really, because the town’s police station didn’t open on a Sunday. I replaced the telephone receiver on the vole who helped out occasionally and melted into the kitchen looking for breakfast.

I examined the eggs, but they’d hatched a long time ago. I then realised that those dreams when six yellow balls of fluff were eating my nose hair weren’t dreams at all… they were chicks. I wondered what happened to them and whether I could still poach, scramble or fry them and whether they’d taste any good on toast. I decided to have some cereal instead, but – not having any cereal – I decided to have some eggs. I then realised the flaw in that decision and cursed my short-term memory. Finding nothing else edible in the kitchen, I tucked into a delicious breakfast of pitted black olives and a refreshing glass of sunflower oil.

After a healthy breakfast and a good old-fashioned vomit, I made my way outside and, seeing her trimming the hedge, called the next-door neighbour a yo-yo knickered prostitute at the top of my voice. Her 30-year old grandson took exception to that and punched me in the nose. Lying bleeding in my gravel path, I called after him that if he’d observed her antics during the Crimean war, he’d share my opinion. He then turned round and started walking back towards me.

I regained consciousness a few minutes later with testicles the size of Seville oranges, a lawnmower up my arse and, worst of all, my blonde wig was lop-sided. My right ear was being kept warm, so I guess every cloud has a silver lining. Having made the best possible start to the day, I made my way back indoors and turned on the PC… well, I did my best anyway – it’s difficult to say erotic things to a piece of electronic machinery without feeling a little bit silly. Sometimes being me is great, but most of the time it’s shit. Honest.

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About A.D.S.

You are reading the musings of a music-obsessed forty-something who was brought up on The Beatles, lived through Britpop and now spends his time in pursuit of the best music around. This 'blog gives me an outlet to write about the huge number of albums I buy and the many gigs I go to. All of the opinions expressed are my own and if you don't agree with me, then I understand - music is a very personal thing. I like to receive comments, especially if they're nice ones.
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