The Story So Far (Part One)
Forgive me Livejournal, for I have sinned.
It has been three months since my last Real Entry.
(And even then it depends how you define "Real Entry").
But these things happen. Anyway - I'm in freakin' CANADA now, baby. Vacationing it up with the in-laws and generally having an awesome time.
Are you sitting comfortably? Then I'll bring you up to speed:
Friday 29th June:
I finished work by four, and headed back home - freedom had arrived! I would now be off work until Tuesday the 17th of July. It was a good feeling.
I was supposed to finish the packing when I came home, as Joss by this point had gone to work on the back-shift and we were due to leave first thing the next morning. I bravely shirked my duties and instead played Age Of Empires II for a couple of hours (no matter how many times I burn down the enemies' town hall, they just keep re-building it!). After that I was pretty poofed, so I had a nap.
My good friend Dan phoned just before I got a chance to lose conciousness. He's a freaking father now, and this was the first I'd spoken to him since this fabulous event, so I congratulated the shit out of him. We confirmed plans for wetting the babies head that night, and I didn't go to sleep after all.
Finally, I was ready to start being responsible. But I couldn't find the zebra-style CD case I needed, so I phoned Joss so as to inquire about its location. There was no answer. I had hit a dead end. So I had some sausage and bacon sandwiches. They were delicious.
Joss got back to me, and reminded me of some necessary tasks to do (booking a taxi, etc.). By about this point it was almost time to head pub-wards to meet up with Dan and his merry men. So I seperated the tasks into two kinds: those that needed doing immediately, and those that could wait until getting back from the pub.
I concluded booking the taxi was the only immediate concern, so did that. And then more-or-less went to the pub.
Now: "wetting the babies head" is a British tradition. When a baby is born, the father of said baby must be whisked off to the pub as soon as humanly possible. He must then be bought drinks by pretty much everyone he knows. The idea is to make your newly born baby proud by showing just how much you can drink in his honour. It's a grand old tradition.
The son goes by the name Luke William Flynn, which is a damn fine name, if you ask me. I got to hear Dan gushing about how wonderful Sam (the mother) has been through this whole miraculous transition, and also just how freakin' wonderful having a baby is. He thoroughly recommends it.
Other highlights of the night include:
- My hatching a theory that we humans didn't so much evolve from monkeys, so much as we were the product of incestuous monkey-relations - we are hairless, freaky-lookin' freaks shunned from polite monkey society. To them, we are the equivalent of ginger people.
- Our good buddy Gormy letting us know that the way he would most like to be greeted at our house is with an: "alright Gormy, we're having an orgy - come on in!"
- Tommy's admission that he'll masturbate anywhere. Apparently, that's what he's spent most of his time in Iraq doing.
- Tommy announcing himself as a "free buck", before upping the stakes in inviting people to come in his "mouth" and "ass", before announcing he was going to "get naked", before whipping his pants down to his ankles and running across the road while certain parties chased him spanking his ass.
Fun times, I'm sure you'll agree. Then John, Joss (who had joined us by now) and myself made the long walk home, belting out whatever tunes we could muster. Including a fabulous rendition of "The Beautiful People", with the riff appropriated as "banana-nana, banana-nana, banana".
Saturday 30th June:
I was about 2.00 AM when we made it home. Pulled an all-nighter to finish packing (and to play a little Mega Drive Monopoly (and at times, to stare zombie-like out of the window)).
Got a taxi at 7.30. Had breakfast at Burger King when it opened. Got on the train. Had a lousy over-priced sandwich. Fell asleep on Jossie. Made it to the airport, which has gone security mental. I'm sorry, but I don't even know if I give a fuck about all this 'terrorism' bull - I'm not convinced anyone has the moral authority to search my shoes and fondle my fiance.
I mean what is it with planes? People have tried - and succeeded - to blow up all sorts of shit. The worst bombings I can think of in recent memory, in the UK, were on buses! But no-ones ever searched my bag on a bus, like. Crazy fuckin' world we live in...
Getting through security put us both in a grouchy mood, and the world's worst lunch at an airport Garfunkels did nothing to alleviate our moods. So Joss perked up buying chocolates and booze for the family, while I played some Mario Kart on the DS. And then we weren't quite so grouchy.
We both nodded off during take-off, so we were already in the air when we came to. A real freakin' jack-ass sat next to us on the plane, he couldn't have made a bigger freakin' deal out of letting one or both of us out to use the bathroom every few freakin' hours. Joss finished her Vonnegut book. I played Sudoko on the DS. We chatted some, but strangers were too tightly packed in for much real conversation. Especially when the most pressing things you'd want to say are: "what's with this jackass?" and "I think the kid behind me is kicking me!". The flight was looong.
I caught most of The Pursuit Of Happyness while Joss was napping. It seemed very cute, if a little boring.
Sunday 1st July:
We finally return to earth around the 2.00 AM mark. Then change our watches.
Saturday 30th June (Again):
Joss's folks couldn't have been more excited to see us. There was much hugs, and they had flowers for both of us, which is always nice. Drinks were drunk, food was eaten, Joss got a "welcome home!" and I got a "welcome to your second home!" (from Grae, top man). There was much in the way of laughter and merriment. And then, there was much in the way of sleeeeeep.
TO BE CONTINUED...
It has been three months since my last Real Entry.
(And even then it depends how you define "Real Entry").
But these things happen. Anyway - I'm in freakin' CANADA now, baby. Vacationing it up with the in-laws and generally having an awesome time.
Are you sitting comfortably? Then I'll bring you up to speed:
Friday 29th June:
I finished work by four, and headed back home - freedom had arrived! I would now be off work until Tuesday the 17th of July. It was a good feeling.
I was supposed to finish the packing when I came home, as Joss by this point had gone to work on the back-shift and we were due to leave first thing the next morning. I bravely shirked my duties and instead played Age Of Empires II for a couple of hours (no matter how many times I burn down the enemies' town hall, they just keep re-building it!). After that I was pretty poofed, so I had a nap.
My good friend Dan phoned just before I got a chance to lose conciousness. He's a freaking father now, and this was the first I'd spoken to him since this fabulous event, so I congratulated the shit out of him. We confirmed plans for wetting the babies head that night, and I didn't go to sleep after all.
Finally, I was ready to start being responsible. But I couldn't find the zebra-style CD case I needed, so I phoned Joss so as to inquire about its location. There was no answer. I had hit a dead end. So I had some sausage and bacon sandwiches. They were delicious.
Joss got back to me, and reminded me of some necessary tasks to do (booking a taxi, etc.). By about this point it was almost time to head pub-wards to meet up with Dan and his merry men. So I seperated the tasks into two kinds: those that needed doing immediately, and those that could wait until getting back from the pub.
I concluded booking the taxi was the only immediate concern, so did that. And then more-or-less went to the pub.
Now: "wetting the babies head" is a British tradition. When a baby is born, the father of said baby must be whisked off to the pub as soon as humanly possible. He must then be bought drinks by pretty much everyone he knows. The idea is to make your newly born baby proud by showing just how much you can drink in his honour. It's a grand old tradition.
The son goes by the name Luke William Flynn, which is a damn fine name, if you ask me. I got to hear Dan gushing about how wonderful Sam (the mother) has been through this whole miraculous transition, and also just how freakin' wonderful having a baby is. He thoroughly recommends it.
Other highlights of the night include:
- My hatching a theory that we humans didn't so much evolve from monkeys, so much as we were the product of incestuous monkey-relations - we are hairless, freaky-lookin' freaks shunned from polite monkey society. To them, we are the equivalent of ginger people.
- Our good buddy Gormy letting us know that the way he would most like to be greeted at our house is with an: "alright Gormy, we're having an orgy - come on in!"
- Tommy's admission that he'll masturbate anywhere. Apparently, that's what he's spent most of his time in Iraq doing.
- Tommy announcing himself as a "free buck", before upping the stakes in inviting people to come in his "mouth" and "ass", before announcing he was going to "get naked", before whipping his pants down to his ankles and running across the road while certain parties chased him spanking his ass.
Fun times, I'm sure you'll agree. Then John, Joss (who had joined us by now) and myself made the long walk home, belting out whatever tunes we could muster. Including a fabulous rendition of "The Beautiful People", with the riff appropriated as "banana-nana, banana-nana, banana".
Saturday 30th June:
I was about 2.00 AM when we made it home. Pulled an all-nighter to finish packing (and to play a little Mega Drive Monopoly (and at times, to stare zombie-like out of the window)).
Got a taxi at 7.30. Had breakfast at Burger King when it opened. Got on the train. Had a lousy over-priced sandwich. Fell asleep on Jossie. Made it to the airport, which has gone security mental. I'm sorry, but I don't even know if I give a fuck about all this 'terrorism' bull - I'm not convinced anyone has the moral authority to search my shoes and fondle my fiance.
I mean what is it with planes? People have tried - and succeeded - to blow up all sorts of shit. The worst bombings I can think of in recent memory, in the UK, were on buses! But no-ones ever searched my bag on a bus, like. Crazy fuckin' world we live in...
Getting through security put us both in a grouchy mood, and the world's worst lunch at an airport Garfunkels did nothing to alleviate our moods. So Joss perked up buying chocolates and booze for the family, while I played some Mario Kart on the DS. And then we weren't quite so grouchy.
We both nodded off during take-off, so we were already in the air when we came to. A real freakin' jack-ass sat next to us on the plane, he couldn't have made a bigger freakin' deal out of letting one or both of us out to use the bathroom every few freakin' hours. Joss finished her Vonnegut book. I played Sudoko on the DS. We chatted some, but strangers were too tightly packed in for much real conversation. Especially when the most pressing things you'd want to say are: "what's with this jackass?" and "I think the kid behind me is kicking me!". The flight was looong.
I caught most of The Pursuit Of Happyness while Joss was napping. It seemed very cute, if a little boring.
Sunday 1st July:
We finally return to earth around the 2.00 AM mark. Then change our watches.
Saturday 30th June (Again):
Joss's folks couldn't have been more excited to see us. There was much hugs, and they had flowers for both of us, which is always nice. Drinks were drunk, food was eaten, Joss got a "welcome home!" and I got a "welcome to your second home!" (from Grae, top man). There was much in the way of laughter and merriment. And then, there was much in the way of sleeeeeep.
TO BE CONTINUED...