widg‧et /ˈwɪdʒɪt/ [wij-it] -noun: Pointless ramblings from the New Forest. Obviously complete & utter Rubbish. Why must I contibute to all this endless talk about me? My self-indulgent knees, spilling themselves all over the internet. Obviously i am Jon and his hair, I AM HIM!

Tuesday, September 12, 2006

The Flighty & Fickle Finger of Fate

Current mood: Stalky-stalky, pomegranate, yeah

So I found myself having to explain who Skeletor was to two whole people yesterday, which was quite disconcerting. Although it may just have been the context in which I used him in conversation that needed explaining, but I took great delight in shouting "He-Man" over and over again in their puffed-up, unknowing faces anyway.

A huge & momentous event occurred but 3 hours later, after a very sweaty recording of TWTTIN (Radio 2, Saturday Afternoons, sandwiched between Jonathan Ross & Roland Rivron, oh lordy-lordy) at Bush "like a bird's bush" Hall in leafy Shepherds Bush (like a bird's bush). After a string of strange and curious events (left secret, so you may ignorantly ponder just how strange and curious those events may have been) we were invited upstairs by TV's Emma Kennedy (to the bar, not her room, though she did study our etchings). TV's Emma Kennedy (not her real name at all, as it turns out, well the Emma bit is, we've been lied to) was a very gracious host, outwardly suffering our foolishness gladly (but seething inside with contemptuous rage, I like to think). We chatted a little, trying not to seem too much like stalky-freaks, but not entirely succeeding, leading to sporadic spasms of embarrassment all the way home. Earlier in the evening, whilst we were queuing to get in, we were spied on by a wrinkly (possibly naked and imaginary) granny through her net curtains above the launderette. I began to have a sense of how Miss Kennedy might have felt later on during our stalking activities, though it was in the future and hadn't happened yet (spooky).

The warm glow of awkward reverie was broken by our lovely, bald coach driver, let's call him Adolf. It appears one of us had clicked on the wrong bit while booking their ticket, this meant a journey leaving at the same time, costing the same price, using the same route, but involving an hour stop off at Heathrow. Despite the fact that there was plenty of room on our coach Adolf wouldn't relent, and forced her to get on the other coach in a bit of a justified huff.

This reminds me of a previous coach journey I made, trying to get an earlier bus I was confronted by the phrase "You're playing a dangerous game!" from the driver's lips. I failed to see how this could be true, as I was unaware I was involved in a game, let alone a dangerous one, unless it was one of those mysterious Sean Penn/Michael Douglas style 'The Game' games, and if I was thwarted in my attempt to board this bus I could surely just wait an hour and get on the right one. Rather than let me get to the end of my response to his statement he just waved me on, I win.

Anyway, everything turned out fine, as both coaches got to Heathrow about the same time. Ours developed a fault with it's lights and as that was being sorted out (or not, as the driver's later announcement made clear) Adolf found a tiny glimmer of pity buried deep in his blackened soul and let our hapless friend rejoin us for the journey home, we win!

Currently listening: Bossa Nova 2001 by Pizzicato Five


Blogger Jenniedee said...

Hooray! We win!
Nice back-to-the-future stylee blogging going on here, although I DO know who Skeletor is, and it WAS the context wich was confusing...

7:27 pm

Blogger AlphIANo said...

You'd think they'd know better than to let fascists drive coaches these days, after all we DID win the war! National Express Nazis!!!!
But yay for radio comedy, and TV celebrity splishy-splashy!!!!

3:37 am


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