Ok, I'm not writing much on the old NaNoWriMo, as evidenced by this post. Plus, I'm finding it extremely hard to invent hilarious goings-on from my head. I have oft thought of this blog during my writing, and mused upon how much weirder and amazing real life is. Had I written this blog as fiction, I would never have come up with smashing a Frenchman's speakers, masturbating on an ex-girlfriend's couch, or punching a wall in Spain after no sex (my hand still hurts), not to mention detailing a lifetime's idiocy.
As for a real-life update viz a viz the ladytramp, the police were called - ok, community officers (they hang around and chat more) - removing the lady in question. It turns out she was a prostitute, recuperating between shifts. Her thigh length boots and belt-sized skirt gave it away, but as she was perpetually under an old blanket lying on cardboard, I never noticed. Suffice to say, there's a troubled life full of intriguing twists and stunning turns that gets but a passing mention here. (Can you tell I'm screaming for interesting characters?)
I am about to embark on a STAG WEEKEND - a bachelor party for the un-British - in Bristol, fucking Bristol, tomorrow night and for two days, in honour of my mate Big Nicholas and his looming wedding. Bristol, to the uninitiated, is a large port town, perhaps a city, in the west of England. It is famous, in my mind at least, for getting fat on the profits of slavery, for Massive Attack, and for blind, mindless thuggery emitting from their numerous waterside pubs. Thirty men are going, and a fair few will be financial London City types. Hence, an Olympian amount of alcohol will be abused, and a fair amount of (allegedly) natural and chemical substances of the illicit persuasion gorged upon - but not by me. *Cough*. Needless to say, I am currently extremely concerned, not for being in such a reprehensible crowd, but more to do with my immediate and impending death in the next 48 hours.
And should I survive, I have a second date to look forward to next Friday (although she's currently not getting my text humour, which is bad); Me, her, and Matt Damon in the third part of an average trilogy.
Golly, things are actually happening.
[Publicists - please offer me a five-figured book deal.]
Finally, does anyone know how a postman can ruin a blind date? I'm out of NaNo ideas here.