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!

Wednesday, January 30, 2008

You Hold & I'll Pop

Whilst none of me was at pub on Thursday, all of me was at work; come Friday most of me was at pub, and the rest of me was neatly deposited into a small bag in Trinity Church Hall (and not in a dirty way).

Right, you know on Sesame Street, not the pinball one with the numbers, but where there's that gymnast on her hobbledy-horsey, and they keep on banging on about "between" until the word's lost all meaning. Well it's a bit like that i'ntit?

With one whole days warning, we were informed that Mr Proprietor would like to perform a teensy-tiny ickle survey on poor Stephen, for an unspecified amount of time, but presumed to be smallish, on Thursday morning. What eventually occurred bore little resemblance to what had been vaguely described on paper, and seemed to be more of an architectural autopsy.

The bell chimed several hours late and the door swung open to reveal a stream of people in numbers reminiscent of a Benny Hill sketch. I began to wonder if I had left a window open, so that they could climb out only to return through the front door over and over again, in an attempt to freak us out. They were strangely mute, and seemed barely able to acknowledge our existence as they gleefully tore through the floor in a desperate hunt for treasure.

None was found, so, once the considerable dust had settled and fixtures & fittings had been sticky-taped back into position, we set off on a house hunt. Our current lettings lackeys had nothing available within a twenty mile radius; evidently word has spread about how irredeemable SHITE they are. The thin lipped agents from the market place decided to play a game of 'arsehole in the middle' with the keys, and were thus most unhelpful. Our first successful viewing was arranged through a thoroughly decent piece or card in a shop window. It was a three horse race, between us, a couple of Poles & the eventual surprise winners, some friends of the landlord. We consoled ourselves with the fact that the considerable distance from town, taking literally an unsubstantiated fraction of an hour, was sufficiently unwieldy; and ran straight into the arms of a floor-obsessed paranoid.

Currently listening: Little Death by Pete & the Pirates

Monday, January 07, 2008

Jazzin' For Brown Cords

Forgetting to avoid shooting the messenger, we scoop the rest of the postman off the doorstep and pop him straight into the industrial rat composter before we allow the news to soak through. The verdict is in: we have but three months to vacate the cold & crumbly innards of the place we have come to call Stephen.

Cue much wailing & gnashing of landlords as we gather up all of our hatred and as much negative energy as we can muster, channelling it all into the warming bosom of oblivion that is the oncoming birth of Brown.

"The Spider, naturally, steals the show."

This is as much as I can recall of the evening's heaving festivities; so, with our memories heavily bandaged, we retire to what may well be one of the last full volume Splishy-Splashies ever, in order to drown our joys in Bowie & vodka.

The next morning, whilst the saner among us adopt the recovery position, our brand new home-owner has already managed to kill a prospective neighbour. I was a witness to the carnage, M'Lud. Just a couple of days before, on a quick reconnaissance mission around the new Hockobode, the aforementioned neighbour, a local, raging alcoholic, had demanded entrance without the proper documentation or security pass. He burst in, demanding to talk to a superior officer about who was causing the inaudible tiptoeing & gentle padding noises emanating from his ceiling for all of twenty seconds. I began to internally hum the theme tune to 'Neighbours (Everybody Needs Good)', as the rant continued. He slurred outrageously, suggesting that it was the new boys job to soundproof the entire block of flats.

"Cock" I thought to myself, as I usually do in times such as this.

Or, indeed, most of the time. It is normally the first thought that comes into my head (boom boom). But do not despair, insensitive reader, he redeemed himself soon afterwards when an aneurysm popped in his brain, presumably brought on by the oppressive whispering & long bouts of ear-splitting silence. Happy days.

Currently listening: Tallulah by The Go-Betweens

Saturday, January 05, 2008

Make It Bacon, Baby

Brmmmmm... Vroom Vroom Vroooommmmmm! Eeeeeeeeeeeeee! etc.

After fifteen years of vague and sporadic attempts to guide a boxy melange of metal, plastic and rotten, organic liquid across vast distances by randomly pawing at a bewildering variety of pedals, levers, pulleys & wheels; the moment has come. A decade since my last such experience; I sit clutching my slowly moistening documents until the under-glamorous lady-examiner takes me by my metaphorical ear to the waiting vehicle for a series of hastily rehearsed questions and a sheepish parp on the horn. A quick and pointy prompt leads me to conclude that to have the best chance of not failing, or indeed dying, it might work in my favour to switch on the road brighteners.

By the time I can see where I'm going we're already halfway round a roundabout, and twenty feet up in the air, about to career through a huge, stained glass window that will cut me all to shreds. At least that's what I imagine until I pluck up the courage to open my eyes and find that I'm nearly done. My only remaining obstacle being the infamous 'Mountain of Death', or, more accurately, 'The Shallow Incline of Backwards Rolling & Likely Stalling' followed by 'The Rounded Corner of Mildly Restricted Vision'. I sail (drive, surely?) through them all with drooping colours (amongst other things) and shoddily drop anchor/trousers/handbrake at the centre of all testing; coming to rest at an angle that I like to think is, at the very least, quirky, if not downright jaunty.

I claim my shiny, pink & plastic booty and engage in an introverted round of victory hand-jiving with my well-impressed instructor. As my chauffeur takes me home, the sky fills with slowly falling daisies, owls with trendy haircuts and no thumbs give me a thumbless thumbs-up. Skipping bunnies, prancing badgers & boggling ponies come to congratulate me, before being tidily squished under my glistening wheels.

But, of course, I am only allowed one, lonely day of happiness & animal maiming, before my joy is crushed under the weight of the hulking great calves of the next day's evil news... to be continued... duh duh duh!

Currently listening: Don't Try This At Home by Billy Bragg