Friday, Oct. 17, 2003
Fucking Cornwall. Call me old fashioned, but what the fuck does a scrumpy jack night out with a bunch of clotted cream munching local yocals have to compare with getting completely lashed with my lager lout companions in the seedy public houses of Grays? No comparison. It's good to be back.
I watched 'the match', (us versus the goat shagging Turks), in the lounge of The Jolly Sailor in Falmouth. The lounge - only because the puke and blood had been wiped off these tables and not the ones in the other room. And I couldn't see anything fucking jolly about it either. Mind you, I couldn't see much by the time the match started. I'd been on the Polish White Spirits & Red Bulls since early that morning. I'd ran out of milk - actually I'd ran out of places to stay to be more accurate. Apparently, friendly sea-side coastal resorts don't seem to be able to cater for the stressed executive types like myself who come to unwind, relax, get pissed & grope all the local totty they can get their gnarled, boozed, numbed hands on. Fucking impolite that's what I call it.
So there I was in The Jolly Sailor with Kevin 'Shaven Arse' Shanker-the-Wanker - the former editor of the ill-fated Basildon Evening Bugle. Kev had retired to Cornwall after the The Bugle went bust - and word got out of financial irregularities between him and one of Lenny's top paying advertisers, if y'know what I mean. Yes we did shave his arse - on top of Fortress Wapping - and stuck it in front of the aircraft beacon so it could be silhouetted across the East London night sky like a mooning Batman symbol.
Yes. He was also a complete wanker.
He was the only newspaper editor to run a "Di & Dodi Death Pact" story the day after the crash. His source for the scoop was an anonymous mobile phone call. Those were the days when pay-as-you-go phones were really cheap - and I never used it after that. What a cunt, eh? But he was thick enough to believe it - and I was drunk enough to try it in the first place.
But I was now staying in Kev's luxury caravan. So I had to pretend that I liked the twat. I mean, I've been in some tight smelly places before, (1985 - "Live Aid" - back stage - David Bowie's dressing room - Christ can that boy fart for England! No wonder he spent so much time 'Dancing In The Street' later on!), but Kev's caravan carried a public health warning, and had even featured in a local TV report on 'local environmental issues'. I was so disgusted by that & the match, that after the match I ditched Kev and the caravan and slept on the beach.
I seemed to remember wandering the roads for a bit, and got a lift off some New Age wandering hippies who were off to the Eden Project. This was more of Dave's domain - so I shagged the ugliest one just so I could share the experience with him. We arrived there and Stardust Sprinkler, (Sandra Burton from Wolverhampton - I said I'd never mention her name in the article I was doing on 'alternative lifestyles', in case her parents realised where she was and got the police to arrest her for emptying their savings account with forged signatures. But I never said I wouldn't spread it all over the internet...), had wanted us to get naked in a waterfall inside one of these fucking stupid glass domes. My exact words were:
"The only time I'll get naked with you in that waterfall you grotesquely malformed mutant is if the leader of the Conservative Party & his horse-faced wife, Betsy, come strolling around the corner laughing their caps off..."
Thankfully Kev bailed me out. The local police let me off with a caution - as long as I left the county.
Mr & Mrs Burton your daughter will be camped on Salisbury Plains, near Stone Henge, for the next three weeks - the black caravan with the Greenpeace symbol on the roof.
It's great to be back.
Catch you later
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