Hyacinth Bucket’s biggest adventure yet!
Look mom. No hands!
Yeah, I’ve not posted anything for a while. But least we forget:
“All human actions are equivalent and all are on principle doomed to failure”.
Jean-Paul Sartre (Two barrels of misery)
Boom! I just hit you with some philoso-fey, the thoughtful equivalent of soft Sci-fi. But, before I start congratulating myself with more YouTube videos about horses and a candlelit listen to Man 2 Man by Scotch while eating broken biscuits and pouring milk on my face, have this:
I’ve been hard at work. Obviously not on the blog, but I am at work on various projects (here is evidence). The rest of which I will say more about the closer we are to finishing them…
Which is a neat segway into The Brighton Fringe festival. I’ll be displaying some (attempted artistic-ish) pieces, see above, at the Brighton Fringe as part of the Waste of Space event along with the other members of C’lective. It’s from 5th – 27th May so come along, check it out, have a kiss, buy a dad, eat a pie, watch the sea and then leave all glad happy and rainbow pointing and mildly less ready to die.
They’ll definitely be more of this:
I’ll be blogging again soon.
My moustache was powerful and the moon was full. A walrus wandering alone on the lip tundra. From the picture it’s obvious that smallimusitus is stronger than me now, I’m frail, white, like a vampire from the 60′s.
Friday is a blur to me now. My memories of the weekend’s events are hazy at best, repressed like a bad uncle or off colour remarks made by an ageing family member. I know I arrived in Techno paradise on Friday evening amazed by the huge volume of moustache’s on display. But my excitement quickly turned to anger as man after man answered my inquisition of ’Mo?’ with the cold words ‘No, German’.
The evening wore on in with shot after shot of testosterone, Rape me was turned up to 11 and I was eating steak flavoured Mccoys like I’d just shot tomorrow in the face and tossed a grenade in for good measure. I filmed myself throwing a cat in a bin and uploaded it to Youtube, laughing at the backlash. My compadre smashed up a bin and spoons became jewellery while we danced like our feet despised the floor. Yes, a good time was had by all.
I arrived back in London to find that I was dead. Legally dead.
It seems the tache’ had been onto the social services, told them I’d died of face rickets. It made my face bulbous, like my mum was an elephant but my dad was a man, then eventually my eyes were squashed into my brain. I came home to find Southwark council breaking into my house and pissing on my CDs, all the while laughing to themselves and repeating the words ’outmoded format’. I couldn’t tell if they were talking about me or CD. I started crying there and then and still haven’t stopped.
I slammed ‘strone shot number 35 into my face and raged for a while, I threw a tin of blue paint over a London bus and shouted ‘meat is murder’, before tripping up a pensioner and standing in front of him shaking other people’s fists.
After banging testosterone shot number 32 into my face on the train I was feeling good, powerful even. As masculine as only Lilly Savage or Edna Everage must feel. I was feeling like a pair of balls swinging between a sequined skirt. The train journey took forever and I had some spare meat on me, so I started to fashion it into tiny little families.
I’ve fallen behind, and for that I am sorry. Excuses: I have become a victim of three things:
a) My keyboard is missing both the ‘y’ and ‘n’ keys. There was a Yaffingale annoying me, so I removed my ability to type its name.
b) I have a very localised infection on the tip of one of my fingers making it extremley difficult to type.
c) I went to Brighton.
Over the next few days I will do my best to get back up to speed so as not to whelch on the sexy whispered promise we made to each other.
Has it occured to anyone else that Jennifer Aniston may just be a moustache in disguise? I’m not one to leap to the idea that a face hair may gain senteince, but all she’s famous for is having hair, and said hair is the same shape as a moustache. Plus, David Schwimmer said on the set of Friends all she ever ate was this:
I hear Brad Pitt left because he was sick of coughing up hair balls.
I’ve finally named my moustache, smallimus-itis. ‘Cause that’s how I see it. As a disease. Is it right to force a man catch a disease to cure a disease? I ask you this Movember, IS IT RIGHT? Anyway, I figured if I had to go down I could at least name my killer after me, like Lou Gehrig’s disease or Steve AIDS.
I caught myself listening to an audiobook on taming lions today, and I don’t remember putting it on my ipod or purchasing it. I can only assume the moustache is preparing me for my new life as a ring master when the incubation is over. I will fight this.
I think my moustache tried to push me down the stairs today. But I could be paranoid, I’ve upped my testosterone dosage and my nipples are starting to mutiny. To be honest I didn’t know men could produce milk.
You know when you can feel something in your pocket but don’t know what it is? That happens to me all the time, but lately I keep hoping it’s a gun so I can pull it out and time myself cleaning it, impressing myself and all local rednecks. Everything went blue on Wednesday, I could hear ‘no more I love you’s’ and thought I was going to die, then I think the tips of my fingers turned into knuckles…and I still haven’t had a free Byron burger.
I’m like Pokemon. Normally I stay away from children, kids love me, but I hate them. I swear, my face is like a Disney movie to the little shits. In fact the more I beg and scream that they leave me alone, the more there are in my junk. I’m very much like a reverse pedophile in that respect.
One of the saddest things I’ve ever seen in my life was a young boy, crying alone dressed as Robin. He looked so sad, crossing a field with his domino mask in his hands, salty sadness splashing on his red dream cape. My first thought was ‘Where is that boy’s Batman?’. I moved to approach him. I stopped in front of ‘Robin’ and he lifted his ruddy little Dick Grayson face, I leaned in and screamed: GET HAPPY PRICK, GET YO’SELF A MOUSTACHE.