Sausage Links
Tonight sees us venturing to the new refurbished Rising Sun pub, for a few drinks with the fragrant Emma & Scott. We have been tempted by their food advertisement proclaiming they have 50 different types of sausage available in house. It makes a change from pubs claiming they have 50 different single malts in stock.
I love sausages and I'm salivating profusely. Like Nelson gets when he goes sniffing around other doggies. If I shake my head I'll spray the screen. You get the picture. You can't beat a good meaty sausage, bursting with fat, flavour, and the butchers secret mix of spices, saw dush, blood and gristle.
Scott emailed us this morning to sort out the details. I'm too lazy to write anything else today -- apart from noting how poetic Saddam's speech was this morning -- so here are those emails:
From: Scott
What time is the sausage love in?
From: Vicki
That sounds very rude. I don't mind really. How about 7.30/8? We can meet you in the pub.
From: Nobby
It made me gag on my apple. We'll have to eat quickly so that Scott & Em can come back to ours -- so Scott can check out GTA Vice City...
From: Vicki
Whatever ... (he's not at all addicted)
From: Scott
The day Neil starts eating quickly, is the day I know there's some serious problems.
I'm a slow eater.
Friday, January 17, 2003
Thursday, January 16, 2003
Tuesday, January 14, 2003
Hotter Than The Sun Mail.com
Apologies to all spammers who might have emailed me over the last four weeks: Because I didn’t check my Hotmail account for 30 days, Microsoft mercilessly nuked it. All contacts and messages from Nigerian Bank Presidents, Norton Systemworks resellers, doctors prescribing growth hormones, and bandits revealing the secrets of online marketing for just $1, have been lost to the void. As have all my porn links.
If you sent me something and a reply wasn’t forthcoming, now you know why…
Nobby underscore Dobscrub at hotmail dot com is reactivated.
Looking Sheepish
I bought myself a real bargain at the weekend: A sheepskin deerstalker-style hat with fold-down ear protectors for just £6.99 in the Gap sale. I look a complete dork in it, but it is incredibly warm. I shall wear it to the football this evening and laugh in the face of icy cold gales that are due to hit. It is another chalk mark on the “I am getting old” board: I am prepared to sacrifice what I look like for comfort and warmth.
I also managed to pick up some matching gloves too.
Unlike my woollen gloves – that make no sound – the sheepskin makes a satisfying “whoompf!” noise when clapped together, so I shall have no problems clapping the heroic performance of Oxford United this evening.
Side story: My sheepskin hat won’t be the stupidest hat ever worn by a member of my family at a football match. A few years back my dad wore an Oxford United cap complete with giant yellow horns to a televised game. The cameras – as they always do when someone looks like a twit – picked him out from the crowd and his ridiculous headwear was seen by the nation.
What is really interesting about the hat is the fact it was owned by Robert Maxwell: Mrs. Maxwell dropped it into and charity shop after her husband’s death, and my mum purchased it for all of 20p.
It’s probably worth a fortune on ebay.
GTA: Vice City Update
After finally nailing the psycho – a 7’ tall rugby player in drag / Baby Spice clone - who was threatening to wipe out my rock band Lovefist, my in game character retired to the local pizza joint. Who should walk in but Michael Jackson in full Thriller album get-up!
He even did a moonwalk when I pointed my gun at him. Unfortunately I then pressed the wrong button and accidentally shot him dead before I’d fully appreciated who he was.
“Eee-Ow!”
I am hoping Michael randomly spawns again soon. Jokes on a postcard please.
Apologies to all spammers who might have emailed me over the last four weeks: Because I didn’t check my Hotmail account for 30 days, Microsoft mercilessly nuked it. All contacts and messages from Nigerian Bank Presidents, Norton Systemworks resellers, doctors prescribing growth hormones, and bandits revealing the secrets of online marketing for just $1, have been lost to the void. As have all my porn links.
If you sent me something and a reply wasn’t forthcoming, now you know why…
Nobby underscore Dobscrub at hotmail dot com is reactivated.
Looking Sheepish
I bought myself a real bargain at the weekend: A sheepskin deerstalker-style hat with fold-down ear protectors for just £6.99 in the Gap sale. I look a complete dork in it, but it is incredibly warm. I shall wear it to the football this evening and laugh in the face of icy cold gales that are due to hit. It is another chalk mark on the “I am getting old” board: I am prepared to sacrifice what I look like for comfort and warmth.
I also managed to pick up some matching gloves too.
Unlike my woollen gloves – that make no sound – the sheepskin makes a satisfying “whoompf!” noise when clapped together, so I shall have no problems clapping the heroic performance of Oxford United this evening.
Side story: My sheepskin hat won’t be the stupidest hat ever worn by a member of my family at a football match. A few years back my dad wore an Oxford United cap complete with giant yellow horns to a televised game. The cameras – as they always do when someone looks like a twit – picked him out from the crowd and his ridiculous headwear was seen by the nation.
What is really interesting about the hat is the fact it was owned by Robert Maxwell: Mrs. Maxwell dropped it into and charity shop after her husband’s death, and my mum purchased it for all of 20p.
It’s probably worth a fortune on ebay.
GTA: Vice City Update
After finally nailing the psycho – a 7’ tall rugby player in drag / Baby Spice clone - who was threatening to wipe out my rock band Lovefist, my in game character retired to the local pizza joint. Who should walk in but Michael Jackson in full Thriller album get-up!
He even did a moonwalk when I pointed my gun at him. Unfortunately I then pressed the wrong button and accidentally shot him dead before I’d fully appreciated who he was.
“Eee-Ow!”
I am hoping Michael randomly spawns again soon. Jokes on a postcard please.
Monday, January 13, 2003
Perch
When Vic came home on Friday evening she reprimanded me for being horrible to Julian. She had read this blog and the black tie wind-up was, in her words, "nasty".
Ironically, when we arrived at the dinner on Saturday night, there were a number of gentlemen in black tie present. And they weren't waiters. The majority of chaps were in lounge suits. Only a handful - including myself - were in "smart casual" attire. Despite my trendy new designer shirt and pants, I felt a little under-dressed. The huge collars on the shirt made me look like the mutant hybrid love child of Harry Hill and Graham Norton.
I should have taken my own advice.
After being sat at the dinner table for two minutes though, Vicster seemed to change her mind about my bullying of Julian: He managed to stick his elbow in her face when pouring the wine, bore her to tears about the state of parking at B&Q Aylesbury, and sit with his legs so open that he almost knocked her off her chair. All in two minutes.
No punches were thrown. No demons exorcised. Everyone was well behaved. Grinned and bore it.
Lisa even managed to say more than two words to me as well.
She managed five:
"Hello, this is Simon."
"Bye!"
On the way home Vic kept telling me that, for my own sanity, I have to get a new job.
Or a snipers rifle.
There is a tall chimney stack that overlooks the car park.
When Vic came home on Friday evening she reprimanded me for being horrible to Julian. She had read this blog and the black tie wind-up was, in her words, "nasty".
Ironically, when we arrived at the dinner on Saturday night, there were a number of gentlemen in black tie present. And they weren't waiters. The majority of chaps were in lounge suits. Only a handful - including myself - were in "smart casual" attire. Despite my trendy new designer shirt and pants, I felt a little under-dressed. The huge collars on the shirt made me look like the mutant hybrid love child of Harry Hill and Graham Norton.
I should have taken my own advice.
After being sat at the dinner table for two minutes though, Vicster seemed to change her mind about my bullying of Julian: He managed to stick his elbow in her face when pouring the wine, bore her to tears about the state of parking at B&Q Aylesbury, and sit with his legs so open that he almost knocked her off her chair. All in two minutes.
No punches were thrown. No demons exorcised. Everyone was well behaved. Grinned and bore it.
Lisa even managed to say more than two words to me as well.
She managed five:
"Hello, this is Simon."
"Bye!"
On the way home Vic kept telling me that, for my own sanity, I have to get a new job.
Or a snipers rifle.
There is a tall chimney stack that overlooks the car park.
