Dun-dun-dun! (I do talk rubbish sometimes)
Alan is posting!! At least I think I am, one of y'all is gonna have to let me know if this has gone out okay.
Don't have much to say today, but thought I'd better post something after holding this account for two weeks. So, thanks to Kalyn for setting up the journal, grazi to everyone who has put me on their lists, cheers to the Academy for presenting me with this award, and a big 'merci' to all those French people out there. You're French, and I think that's great.
I don't say thank you that often. Just to put it into perspective, the last time I said that to anyone was when I nearly got arrested. 's true, nearly happened. Me and my mate Winston (his real name was Denver, but he was fat, bald and smoked cigars) got drunk one evening and thought it'd be a really fun idea to hijack an ice-cream van. There was a good reason for it but I won't go into that here. We perched ourselves on a bridge over one of the streets near our estate and waited for something brightly-coloured making loud noises to roll by. When it did Winston pushed me off the bridge in front of the van, which promptly screeched to a halt as the driver dashed out to check on me. The driver started checking my injuries(very well, I might add) and I fibbed up a storm of broken bones and torn muscles, when in truth all I'd broken was my hip. Fool.
Anyhoo, Winston wired the van, and we dashed off. I'd like to tell you how I managed that with a broken hip and an ice-cream man trying to put me in the recovery position (i.e. spooning) but it's a long story and I won't go into that here. Anyway, Winston and I start ransacking the van for snacks, when we round a corner and the Territorial Army's in front of us. They tell us both to get out of the van under threat of being beaten, and that we'd better be quick about it as it was 11.30pm on a Sunday and they're only supposed to work weekends.
"What are the military doing stopping ice-cream bandits?" I hear you ask. Well, on closer inspection it turned out that we weren't in an ice-cream van. It was an ambulance. The first clue was that the man that'd first-aided me wasn't Italian and wore a neon jacket with 'paramedic' on the back. The next clue was that the ice-cream jingle had been a lot screechier and, well, alarming than I was used to. The third clue was that the Mr. Whippy ice-cream I'd been chomping on for the past 7 minutes was in fact a pint of blood being fed into an irate pensioner with a stick.
The blood was B positive, which would have been ironic enough except for the fact that it had belonged to me just a few short hours ago. I try to donate regularly, even though it makes me lightheaded and prone to doing stupid things.
So I'm in this ambulance, broken hip and red stuff pouring down my face like a pyrokinetic on prom-night, with an army outside getting ready to beat me to death with their own shoes, and an old lady in the van hitting me with a stick 'cos I keep telling her to 'Be Positive'. At this point, Winston points out to me that we are both totally and utterly screwed. And I say
"THANK YOU, Winston, for stating the obvious."
Last time I said thank you, true story. I would explain how I got out of that mess but it's a long story and I don't want to go into that here.
Don't have much to say today, but thought I'd better post something after holding this account for two weeks. So, thanks to Kalyn for setting up the journal, grazi to everyone who has put me on their lists, cheers to the Academy for presenting me with this award, and a big 'merci' to all those French people out there. You're French, and I think that's great.
I don't say thank you that often. Just to put it into perspective, the last time I said that to anyone was when I nearly got arrested. 's true, nearly happened. Me and my mate Winston (his real name was Denver, but he was fat, bald and smoked cigars) got drunk one evening and thought it'd be a really fun idea to hijack an ice-cream van. There was a good reason for it but I won't go into that here. We perched ourselves on a bridge over one of the streets near our estate and waited for something brightly-coloured making loud noises to roll by. When it did Winston pushed me off the bridge in front of the van, which promptly screeched to a halt as the driver dashed out to check on me. The driver started checking my injuries(very well, I might add) and I fibbed up a storm of broken bones and torn muscles, when in truth all I'd broken was my hip. Fool.
Anyhoo, Winston wired the van, and we dashed off. I'd like to tell you how I managed that with a broken hip and an ice-cream man trying to put me in the recovery position (i.e. spooning) but it's a long story and I won't go into that here. Anyway, Winston and I start ransacking the van for snacks, when we round a corner and the Territorial Army's in front of us. They tell us both to get out of the van under threat of being beaten, and that we'd better be quick about it as it was 11.30pm on a Sunday and they're only supposed to work weekends.
"What are the military doing stopping ice-cream bandits?" I hear you ask. Well, on closer inspection it turned out that we weren't in an ice-cream van. It was an ambulance. The first clue was that the man that'd first-aided me wasn't Italian and wore a neon jacket with 'paramedic' on the back. The next clue was that the ice-cream jingle had been a lot screechier and, well, alarming than I was used to. The third clue was that the Mr. Whippy ice-cream I'd been chomping on for the past 7 minutes was in fact a pint of blood being fed into an irate pensioner with a stick.
The blood was B positive, which would have been ironic enough except for the fact that it had belonged to me just a few short hours ago. I try to donate regularly, even though it makes me lightheaded and prone to doing stupid things.
So I'm in this ambulance, broken hip and red stuff pouring down my face like a pyrokinetic on prom-night, with an army outside getting ready to beat me to death with their own shoes, and an old lady in the van hitting me with a stick 'cos I keep telling her to 'Be Positive'. At this point, Winston points out to me that we are both totally and utterly screwed. And I say
"THANK YOU, Winston, for stating the obvious."
Last time I said thank you, true story. I would explain how I got out of that mess but it's a long story and I don't want to go into that here.