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!

Sunday, January 07, 2007

The Fall of Rome

The last of the week's three parties is finally over. I could now relax if I hadn't woken up with a steamy throat cold and didn't have to drag myself into work.

New Years was the obvious first party, the preparation and aftermath having already been documented in previous entries, I won't bore you with the details any longer. With only a small amount of time to draw breath, Wednesday brought birthday pants of peace to crown Miss Brown's celebratory head. The Manic Street Preachers vied with the Pink "Rinky-Dink" Panther for elbow room at the after-show shindig. How we all cried when Teddy fell over, trying to push Andy Shmpandy off his/her swing. The Care Bears looked on in horror as the multi-ethnic Fraggle Rock muppets got it on with the scary Fingerbobs man in his hideous, grey polo-neck get up. Bobtail was also going at it like the rabbit that he/she is. Watch with mother, indeed.

On Saturday morning at 9am our long journey to darkest Essex and party number three began. First a wobble-free coach to London, all limbs present and correct. Then a damp dash across the capital, collecting various record shaped bargains on the way, followed by a boozey pit stop before we were on our way again, this time by train. A last minute platform change, two minutes before the train was due to leave, created an impromptu steeple-chase across the Liverpool Street concourse. A slightly late departure caused fingers to be chewed and sweat to be nervously excreted, as it looked like our expected four minute date with Marks Tey, to catch a connecting train, would end in Mr. Tey being stood up. Luckily, we managed a thirty second quickie before setting off for wet-leafy Sudbury. A quick & soggy detour through the local Waitrose and then we were safe in the squished bosom of the birthday boy's car, twisting and turning down the excessively windey road. Eventually, we arrived at our final destination. The middle of sodding nowhere.

There was just time for a little pub interlude before getting into character as a Nazi, crook-miming, kiddie-fiddling Pope. I managed to find my motivation, and possible murder weapon, before settling down to dinner at Camp David in honour of Bill Clinton's sixtieth birthday. All the stars were there, Bill & Hillary, Melinda Gates, Condoleeza Rice, even Ruth "Belly" Kelly who was in the news just this week for being a political hypocrite (surely not). Subtle characterisation was the order of the day, George Clooney and his incessant musk, George Bush and his annoying habit of chopping out lines of flour in the bog, the eventual victim Roman I'llhavesomehamavich ending every sentence with -ivich or -ski. In the end it turned out that the arse-lickey Tony Blair (Yeah) was the murderer, in the garden, with the revolver, but no one knew exactly why.

Currently listening to this nostalgic 90s album: Everything Must Go (10th Anniversary Edition) by the Manic Street Preachers


Blogger AlphIANo said...

HEARD IT! Yes, please blog more about fun things you did that I couldn't do. And wasn't even invited to. Yes, please do, go on... (nice piccy though) xxx

10:41 pm


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