It's about fucking time

Because I've been busy doing interesting things like having a relationship for the first time in two years, and going on holiday with her (yes, I know this is all very smug, but I'm not boring you witless with the endless photographs of snowdrops I took, am I, so stop mithering), and using interweb/broadband for its true purpose of downloading recordings of certain artistes and pursuing the quest for what is currently being discussed here as black fuzz, I've not offered anything here, or bothered to look at what some people have to offer themselves; which means I may have been missing out. But hey, life is a rich tapestry...

Anyway, I've been communicating with my long-time associate, Mr. N, and I couldn't be arsed to say it all again, so here is an edit of anything not desperately personal that might be of entertainment. Tabatha is still permitting me to court her, so things are ok.

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Hmm, I can hear where the comparisons to Stone Roses are coming from. You estimate my tastes well, young Nutgroist.

I nearly fucked it up last weekend, with a spectacular tantrum at the neighbours, regarding their inherent 'travellers' tendency to leave the backyard like Steptoe's yard - they have now cleared it up, but I did have to go fucking mental, complete with foaming at the mouth, which I haven't done for a good 12 months... However, she didn't do a runner. Big result. She realised that she was perfectly safe when, even as I bellowed about the "stupid cunting bastards" I gently put her overnight bag to one side, and then carried on charging out of the front door to go and hammer on aforementioned scb's front door.

And Socrates doesn't think I need bother him for a while, which is also good. Although I no longer have an excuse to be 'just passing' the South African deli in Roehampton.

I gotta say, M. Polnareff's shades are ace, seriously androgynous. And with all that hair, too, and the mincing about and posturing a la Celine Dion, great value.

Having bothered to write something vaguely substantial that isn't about mass produced foodstuffs for the first time in over a month, I'm going to be a lazy turd and copy some of this straight onto Krusty. To write it all over again would be, to quote my erstwhile colleague Violet Elizabeth, 'duplicitous'. She had no sense of irony, poor cow. Or malapropisms. Or how to behave around someone quite as wonderful as me.

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I'm awaiting delivery of this evenings contribution from 'Four Seasons', relishing the prospect of hot & sour soup, crackers, seaweed (I know it's fucking cabbage, I work in the food industry for Christ's sakes, I just like to eat the shit), beef in yellow bean sauce and 'special' fried rice.

OK, I can't help myself, some holiday snaps.

Snowdrops in Oxfordshire, a great place where the mobile 'phone doesn't work, yeah...


A Toyshop in the Shambles, in York,
Some useful information from a passageway under York station,
And a turd of indeterminate origin, fresh (ish) in a field between Wakefield and Barnsley. I don't think it's of canine origin, so any offers as to what kind of creature left it behind?
Ah, my dinner is here, after an hour plus of waiting. It's about fucking time.