Sunday, 16 January 2011
Shit - Hackney City Farm has got more wildlife than you can bus a leng at - plus if you walk up to the nearby cruising spot like we did at the weekend you'll found a gang of marauding squirrels - those fools are ruling tings round dem parts. They swarmed around us like a bunch of Somalian pirates before stealing all our nuts - Cheeky fucking bastards. We're never trusting anything with a tail ever again.
Yer mum's mum. Sleeping in her own shit
Yer mum. Getting up after sleeping in her own shit
Get off my hand
Please stop cruising. Please?
Aggressive, deviant and defiant cruising - lawless and wrong
Get your claws off me nuts
Too close for comfort
Chaos has reigned of late - Thursday nights have become THE night to drink everything in sight - meaning the Fridays of the new year have been character building exercises in endurance and stamina. Despite any efforts to cover up the night before, the red eyes always give the game away. Rats. Last Thursday culminated in giving a man with a beard a phone number in local late night haunt the Dolphin. 'Why?' is a question that will hopefully never be fully answered.
Elsewhere we ventured down the London Fields birthday for a messy 40th, acquired a new flat mate and sourced and subsequently purchased a bottle of Buckfast - the de rigeur drink for the Scottish alcoholic. A sampling session is imminent as the first pay day of the year is still more than a week away...
Losing one's edge
It's a Batty Rymer birthday Buckfast kinda ting
When collaborations go fucking weird
Thursday night whine
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