Bob Funkhouse lording it up in the Steel City Spring '08
My oh my. The last month has seen the nonsense go off the scale. Night time antics have been getting darker and more twisted as it gets lighter out. The blooming cheeks brought on by the early morning walk of shame after a hearty binge are becoming increasingly apparent to the envious onlooker.
Take our neighbour downstairs. We’d been powdering our hooters til the early morn. I’d fallen asleep atop a toilet (for the second time), exposed the channel of my ass crack to a crowded room while attempting to stuff more ‘chang’ up my snout, then fallen spectacularly on the ice of the roof terrace where the domestic mayhem had been unfurling like a geriatric’s wizard sleeve.
The tumble bruised my ass hard and ensured a long limp back to the gaff. The horror of the fall was nothing compared to the abject terror brought on by being forced into a conversation with our downstairs mix up Jean about the leak in her ceiling.
Before I hurt mysen we went to Catachouk down at the Red House. Our boys the Janitors were down. These are the only snaps I could muster in between drinking heavily and throwing eckers down my neck. Note gurn and intense hatred from Iain Janitor. He is small and doesn’t love the lens.
Less than two weeks later we waved adios to our boy Tom Hydro. He'd got sick of the lack of cock in Sheffield and decided to take the plunge and do the do to London. To celebrate we destroyed ourselves for 16 hours. I left the party twice. Once to go and fetch a cup of tea, then sit convulsing in front of Hollyoaks while the Sheffield half marathon went on outside. Those fucking squares. The second time to go to bed and tackle personal demons...
Bedlam in full effect
Our boy at the height of the madness. Note Penguin Books mug to give the illusion of intellectualism. Not the case
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