24 June 1981: As Dewydd Llewellyn
Well I hope everyone's having as good an evening as I'm having, but I'm not counting on it, since I'm in Cardiff and a lot of you are stuck in London. That said, you should all pay attention to this because I've got a good bit of news, and for once it doesn't even have a bit to do with Quidditch.
So I said to that limey fuck Matt Summers, I said "Boyo, it has been at least a year since I got you drunker than a Chudley Cannon at season's end." Truer than your mum in confession, I'm telling you, and he gave me all these cachu iar answers about his girlfriend, until I finally convinced him by procuring a bottle of absinthe and that pidin tarw Lasair Connolly, who's been writing his fuck-awful articles in The Daily Prophet every bloody week but even though he crashed on my couch every day of the week for SIX YEARS, I haven't heard a word from him. Until now!
Point is, three of us had a little chat -- no absinthe, but the temptation was over-bloody-whelming after Gretchen brought it up, you know how it is when someone mentions something, like menthol fags or chewing gum or how hot redheads are, and then you've got to have a try? Yeah, it was like that -- and decided something needed to be done.
So there's this bar in London, it's called The Silent Sphinx, I know the owner -- more like Ambrose knows the owner, and by know I mean in the biblical sense, but it's all the same -- and the place will be booked for one SOLID night, if the classes of the 1970s, I'm thinking '73, '74, '75, maybe '76? want to forget all their bloody troubles and just have a damn good time.
NEXT SATURDAY. PARTY. SILENT SPHINX. BE THERE.
Oh and if anyone knows a band, we're looking to book one, we might take Myron's unless we can get someone better, I'm just saying!
(MERVYN, YOU'D BETTER BE REVISING.)
So I said to that limey fuck Matt Summers, I said "Boyo, it has been at least a year since I got you drunker than a Chudley Cannon at season's end." Truer than your mum in confession, I'm telling you, and he gave me all these cachu iar answers about his girlfriend, until I finally convinced him by procuring a bottle of absinthe and that pidin tarw Lasair Connolly, who's been writing his fuck-awful articles in The Daily Prophet every bloody week but even though he crashed on my couch every day of the week for SIX YEARS, I haven't heard a word from him. Until now!
Point is, three of us had a little chat -- no absinthe, but the temptation was over-bloody-whelming after Gretchen brought it up, you know how it is when someone mentions something, like menthol fags or chewing gum or how hot redheads are, and then you've got to have a try? Yeah, it was like that -- and decided something needed to be done.
So there's this bar in London, it's called The Silent Sphinx, I know the owner -- more like Ambrose knows the owner, and by know I mean in the biblical sense, but it's all the same -- and the place will be booked for one SOLID night, if the classes of the 1970s, I'm thinking '73, '74, '75, maybe '76? want to forget all their bloody troubles and just have a damn good time.
NEXT SATURDAY. PARTY. SILENT SPHINX. BE THERE.
Oh and if anyone knows a band, we're looking to book one, we might take Myron's unless we can get someone better, I'm just saying!
(MERVYN, YOU'D BETTER BE REVISING.)