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!

Friday, May 04, 2007

The Pleasure Of Faux Leather

I've become a little lax at attending to documenting the nooks and crannies of my waning existence of late, partly from a lack of anything interesting happening in my immediate face (not that that's stopped me before), but mostly from a sun-enhanced carn't be arsedness. So, in an effort to make my toenails seem a touch more exciting, and my philtrum more excited I will litter the following tales with vague inaccuracies and colourful, mythical beasts of yore. Feel free to guess which bits are less than truthful, answers on a postcard or stuck-down envelope to my psychiatrist.

Last Friday, pressie-giving season continued apace with Queen-like Charlie-bo's official birthday. We started off the celebrations by sexing ducks with Andy's bespoke, spangly duck sexer and for pudding we enjoyed the squishy delights of the Swedish krisproll. The nectar of the Gods flowed down our lush, rolling green throats, while we gaily gagged as our gullets swelled to gargantuan proportions (I had ordered the smooth nectar, but the Gods saw fit to deliver the one with bits of bee sting left in it, they work in mysterious ways).

It wasn't long before Mayday reared it's snotty visage, straining at it's shackles to join in the fun. The maybugs were whizzing round and round its mishapen head, making its eyes go all cross and driving our ears to distraction with their hideous clacking. It brought with it many exotic ailments to befuddle our senses, including pungent asparagus wee, sweaty elbows and a strange affliction apparently called 'The Hey-Feebers'. It seems to be some sort of parasitic insect that buzzes incessantly from deep within your nasal cavities causing waves of warm sneezes and runny everything. The only cure is a lukewarm poultice of leeches & cream, or death.

And, for shame, Thursday was local election voting day. Now, I take a very strong view on not voting, I think you should at least turn up to spoil your ballot paper. BUT, for the first time since I was of legal age to satisfy the political urges emanating from my loins, I declined to sup from the bittersweet teat of democracy that many suffered and died for, in order to give me the right to vote. See, it was all due to an enormous dragon that blocked my path with a stream of flaming effluence. Or maybe it was the hey-feebers that crawled out of my nose and began gnawing at my feet, leaving me unable to control the power of my knees. Oh come on, it was sunny, and I couldn't be arsed. Slap me, slap me now. Harder!

Currently listening: The Magic Position by Patrick Wolf


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