My house smells like a beach.
It is not unpleasant; after all beaches are fresh and pleasant places. However houses are supposed to smell of houses, not the sea side.
Last night I got down on all fours and sniffed the floor. The doggy method is often the best way to track down a lingering smell and I’ve had a great deal of success with it in the past. After sever minutes of growling and licking my balls, I discovered that smell was strongest near the door so rolled back the carpet to see if there were any rock pools or smugglers caves underneath. Sadly there wasn’t a crustation or enenomy to be found, so I patted down the carpet and looked into the middle distance for an hour.
Eventually I stopped looking and the answer popped into my brain: my house is being haunted by a dead beach. Perhaps it wandered the earth looking for a place to haunt before setting down near my front door. By now its wife will have moved on and married some coastal erosion before pumping out a couple of dunes. Her dead husband will now be forgotten, washed away by the sea of time.
Well I will never forget it! Even after Max Von Sidow sends it on its way next week. In fact I will have a plaque fitted to my house commemorating its life and once a year I’ll lay on a towel near my door for ten minutes, before getting bored and going to the pub.
Oo! Did I tell you about the mad woman?
A couple of weeks ago I popped over to Leeds to have lunch and drinkies with my lovely chum Michael. I’ve been to Leeds hundreds of times so I foresaw no hindrance to my simply turning up, texting him and arranging to meet up. In fact it was almost impossible for anything to delay to that series of events, or was it? Well of course it wasn’t.
After arriving in Leeds I headed off up the hill to check out the restaurant that had been suggested by the vegetarian and vegan folk of the internet. It was a nice place, though it seemed to be located down a hidden Harry Potter style alleyway which could only be accessed by magic wands. Leeds is full of these hidden places which are made even more difficult to find by the council, who at regular intervals spin the city around to confuse visitors and Google Maps.
Anyway, I digress.
After locating the restaurant, I texted Michael and we arranged to meet at his hotel. Then the mental woman appeared. She popped out from an alleyway and ran straight at me, I sidestepped thinking she was in a hurry but she stopped inches from my head and shouted “I know you!”
“Do you?” I said with a note of fear in my voice.
“We were in the same class at school.”
Before I continue, I feel it only right to inform you that this woman was in her 60s.
“I don’t think we were.”
“Don’t you remember? We were in Mr Stephens class.”
“Look, I didn’t have a teacher called Stephens.”
“You did!” She screamed into my brain.
“Which school are we talking about?”
“Fucking ‘ell! Leeds Grammar.”
“Well, I went to the Halifax Catholic High.”
“You fucking didn’t!”
I walked away, she followed.
“How about Crowther, you must remember him.”
I walked faster.
“You were in the school play!”
I started running, but she still followed me, still shouting and still mental.
“Waaahaaaaaa!” She seemed to be saying but I just kept on running and eventually eluded her by running into a bar and hiding in the. There was some interesting graffiti in there and apparently if you go to that lavatory between 18:00 and 19:00 a man will cum on you.
However the story has a happy ending, because later that day an ancient and underused sink exploded down my leg, which saved the man in the other pub from having to cum on me.
Oh and I had a great time and can heartily recommend Leeds as place to drink in the afternoon along with every other town and city in theUK. No villages though, I hate drinking in villages… villages are cunts.
Time to start drinking or this blog will never end.