It’s conker season.

Posted on September 22, 2007 @ 10:59 AM

It’s the weekend!  I’m so excited.  So many good things just happened and are about to happen.  First of all, I donated some artwork to this charity art fundraiser auction.   We all went down to this church last night where the Bristol art gang were dishing out champagne for free then we sat in a church pew and the auction began.  I made a few jokes about my art being the huge painting of Jes-arse on the back wall and how my Parkinson’s might accidentally cause me to bid on art I didn’t want, neither joke going down very well.  This certainly wasn’t the right audience.  After my work got bought for £35 because I thought it would be funny not to put a reserve, we slipped out and entered a little backstreet rock-joint called The Fleece.  First two songs we heard via the jukebox was Teenage Riot by Sonic Youth (Scerbo tastic of the forgotten Scerbo era of brown dickies, blue hoodie and a brake) and then Pacific by 808 State.  It was a joyous occasion, well, joyous until I went to the toilets that was.  Inside was a fat bald man, dressed head to toe in black sportswear.  He had on black trainers, black tracky bottoms, the Bristol City away shirt, also in black, and a black hat.  He was at the urinal.  His stance for a piss was so utterly disturbing I’m wreching away, dry heaving over my house mate’s nice white Macbook as I reminisce.  He was leant back, both hands resting in the back of his tracky bottows, holding the waist of his trousers below bum level while his choad pointed, hands-free into the urinal.  
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“What the fuck are you doing?”  I asked.  He mumbled a swear word under his breath then fled.  It was then I realised I could here David Bowie singing Queen Bitch.  Hold on, I thought, it sounds live.  Next door to these pub toilets was the rehearsal room for a David Bowie tribute band.  I went back to the bar and there were aged rockers packing in, my eyes instantly drawn to another grosse bottom, though this one was in bronze leather trousers, and wasn’t attached to a fat, bald man.
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Eeeww.  I necked rum like it was about to go out of fashion, chatted, then headed with Jason Lewer to our friend Lucien Buzzo’s house warming party.  I say house warming, but really his dad just moved him and his sister into a garage in the ghetto.  Pretty cool though, and his dad, being an 80s art punk skater, has allowed skate ramps.  Session on.  Me and Jason decided to head to an Electro night in town, so left the teens to skate and flirt, my parting gift to Buzzo being a wedgie.  Pants right off.  As he lay, gaffer taped on the floor, pant-free and in pain, someone found a starwars AT-AT walker.

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The club was awesome and we danced our faces off.  I snogged a right hotty then some dick knocked my hat off my head.  Annoying, I thought.  So I punched him then reached down to get the hat of the dance floor when, as my fingers were millimetres from the hat on the floor, I was hoisted backwards very violently until I wasn’t in the club anymore.  Polish bouncers 1, Rhys nill.  I began the walk home, annoyed that the hot girl was still in the club and I wasn’t, only to be greeted by Skateboard legend Joe Habgood.  

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We got a kebab and walked through the Deaner.  I went home to bed and the best thing ever happened.  the hot chick phoned me…she had my number, excellent.  She was outside my house.  Even more excellent.  Snog on!  
Anyway.  Enough pointless banter from me.  Plymouth naughty boy, Jordan Evans-Vineyis moving to Bristol to help me rule over these Bristolians with our iron green fist of Plymothianess. 

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Tudaar.  

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