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, March 04, 2007

Total Eclipse Of My Arse

Apologies for the break in transmission. We are currently experiencing interference caused by an extended convalescence from a common cold and accompanying breasty cough. Peering through my bleary snot-haze I detect that, presumably due to some non specific trowel-based calamity, Rosemary & Thyme have fingered their last liver spotted murderer, after filling my screen for an entire, agonising, pub-free weekend. It makes me long for the days before baked beans could dance, Halifax cashiers weren't incessantly breaking into song and when Harry Potter wasn't constantly getting his kit off and waving it in your face.

My one refuge away from all this (in addition to the horrifying sight of Take That unexpectedly invading the cosy world of Dancing On Ice) was to be found in New Milton, where I could infect the aged population with my many bacteria, both good & bad, to my heart's unfettered, gleeful content. As well as ogling the bony arses of the elderly as they squirmed & squelched in their firm seats, I was also there to spy on the acoustic antics of The Oyster Band.

We kept the Lymington contingent waiting for their supper, as we scoured the dusty streets for a space with which to halt our journey and leave behind our exhaust-breathing, round-legged steed in a safe spot where it wouldn't be untethered by beings who were not of our own. We ventured inside and were shown to our creaking seats, passing by row upon row of dessicated inhabitants. There was less movement than expected, but a ripple of gentle applause and a surprise drop of Ringwood beer kept our numbing rear ends entertained. Folky treats reigned supreme for many minutes, until I was ripped from the evil, paper stealing company of Davey & Charliebo by an impatient, snarky chariot.

The next weekend was spent on the run under cover of the dull red moon, successfully aping the exploits of the Jaffa Cake, and hiding us from our would-be captor. Our futile escapade drew us further and further away from our intended destination and towards the inevitable, gaping, black hole of Kylie.

Currently listening: The Dark Third by Pure Reason Revolution


Blogger AlphIANo said...

The last sentence in this blog just seemed wrong on so many levels... yes, even the good ones!

11:40 pm

Anonymous The Snarky Chariot Driver said...

Firstly paper stealing is WRONG!!!

Secondly I think you'd be a little snarky if you'd just been viciously attacked by the local meteorology.


9:18 am


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