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, February 17, 2008

The Hutch of Lust

To evilly twist & abuse the words of Teddy Thompson, or even the legendary Cathy Dennis, 'Everybody's Moving', oh yes they are. In the last couple of months 80% of the people I care to like have upped sticks & moved several yards in a clockwise direction around town; and now it's our turn.

But first we must endure the hard rocking whimsy of the next big hot & hot big thing, Thinker, at the New Forest's raciest hot big & big hot spot, The Rydal Arms. For this task I took on a new role as designated car wrangler, and very nearly succeeded in not maiming anyone. The only casualty being my aching shins and my thirsty, shrivelled booze gland. I could only watch on in amused contempt, as my companions doggedly tongued at Sailor Jerry for what seemed like hours while the Charliebo Three entertained the masses.

Back at backwards town, once felt padding was firmly affixed to shoes and all sharp edges sanded off our bare feet, we bid Stephen an indifferent farewell and exchanged the contents of our overdrafts for an inadequate set of guilty keys. We arrived at our new home, heavily laden with our specially selected floor & work surface scratching equipment, only to find an illegally placed landlord & his (f***s like me) Da', passive aggressively fannying about, claiming squatters rights. They were slowly dispatched with as much imaginary violence as possible. We then got on with the business of ritually burning the collection of hideous cat curtains, swan chopping boards, fish mosaics & yachting wallpaper that we had inherited.

The moving continued into the weekend, maliciously invaded by another birthday interloper. Packing had to be exchanged for a long awaited, topical Riggs tableau, finally committed to canvas. Returning to the job at hand, the plumed & putrid ghost of Laurence Llewelyn-Bowen was conjured, using the voodoo medium of grease & phlegm. Muslin of aching hue & mutant hypno-rug were installed; a name was decided upon & then discarded; a Hollyoakes peep-show oubliette was created out of soiled MDF, along with a feline circus themed gazebo for the bird carcass strewn back garden. Yes sir, we have a garden. Ooh, with fingers.


Blogger AlphIANo said...

I haven't moved, or don't I count as someone you "know"?

10:59 pm


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