I realised I had to get a girlfriend, when I couldn’t keep explaining myself to girls, with my friends apologising for me… You throw a bit of the cockney patter at them, couple of insults, see how they fly…. And one of the weaker stomach types, you know, the apologizer, he says ‘sorry about him, in a situation I have under control, and she starts to think… ‘actually maybe this has gone to far’, and he sweeps her off. So… when you find someone who cab put up with your shit, and its hot, then get her on board, away from apologizer… And you can call girls in pubs cunts until your heart is content.
Left over curry…
Oh left over curry, why do you taunt me so? I ate so much. I am full to my absolute maximum. This is not a wafer thin mint scenario. I can’t even move with ease. Getting the remote from my feet was more complicated then the most Matt Damon of algorithms.
Yet she sits, in the microwave, festering in her own tandoori bacteria, like a spicy seductress, capable of giving you irritable bowel syndrome, the assholes version of a boner.
Half a saag aloo, a keema rice and a keema naan…. cold, and un-loving, but appealing like a fat girls ass on a winter’s morning.
I have to have it, I’m going for it.
I have been sick. With joy. And sick,
Fancy plates…
With a limited amount of cupboard space, can somebody explain to me why we have fancy china? We don’t even have people round for dinner. When I go round to someones house for dinner, I don’t think to myself ‘these plates are a bit shit’. I can honestly say I’ve never thought that, and I doubt any other rational persona has either. So why am I wasting one of my three cupboards with plates that if I use, I run the risk of being more severely battered than a Millwall supporting cod in a West Ham chip shop.
Where did the years go, why did the years go…
Wednesday night, ten beers in, four lads sitting in a pub after a healthy violent debate on whether Formula 1 is a sport or not, which first began back in 2004. Somebody, from a distance, like a mythical wizard or long lost Mitchell relative whispers the word ‘… strippers’. Now in days gone by, that would have been the queue to get some some money out, and prepare for the ball-numbing frustration that is sexy Russians you can’t touch even if you pay them. But, however, we are all now of an age….
… the eldest turns to us all, eyes forlorn with responsibility…. “I can’t go lads, I’m saving up to buy a new kitchen’”.
Now instead of the response I expected, which would have been vitriolic condemnation… Instead, we all turned to him… his face clearly expecting a barrage… we all turned, and one of my other chums bravely asked…. “what kind of taps are you thinking of getting”.
Where did the years go? If you’re interested, a granite worktop with silver taps. Very nice indeed.
Sweat…
At what point when I sweat through my shirt do I tell people I’ve just got out of the pool? And if they ask me what pool, what is an appropriate response? There’s just no local pools anymore. Thatcher (shakes fist)!
In the shops…
Whenever I want to look at something in a shop, there’s always someone else standing in the exact position I want to be in, looking at the exact item I want. It’s very uncomfortable to be hovering around close to a total stranger while we look at the same pair of shorts. Then they look at you, to see if you’re a trainee pedophile… and you have to look over their shoulder, or up in the air, ar at their kids. That just makes it worse.
You look…
I can never tell if a woman has gotten fat or thin since I last saw them, so a compliment can be very difficult to pay. Then by the time you’ve gone through the thought process of ‘how fat was Jean when I last saw her…. when did I last see her…. I should call Jean more….’ there’s been about 5 minutes of silence where everyone is waiting for you to say something. So I end up saying ‘nice hair’ or ‘nice shoes’. Now if she’s spent a year working on getting thin, then I’m a bastard. If they hate their hair, I’m a bastard. And whatever you say about their hair, they hate it.
So from now on, I’m not paying women compliments. Which they don’t understand either. They think ‘why hasn’t Tom said I look nice? ‘What’s wrong with me?’, ‘that bald bastard’s got a cheek’.
And FYI…. if they say ‘what’s wrong with me?’ don’t give a full and frank answer. They don’t like that. Especially on their wedding day.
The Man-Boob Conundrum
When I’m out over the park or something, I don’t like to take my shirt off in front of boys who are younger than me. I don’t like to do it in case they mock my flabby chest. I don’t want them to feel bad about themselves in the future. I’m occasionally nice like that.
A clip from Rennie’s Indie-Gestion for broadcast next Monday. Hopefully I will be able to do the show live soon which would make for such a better show….. email studio@linkfm.net to agree with me or post on the Link FM facebook page to tell them Rennie needs to be live!!!!
Nick Mack in the studio.
