nunoncastors

I am a common-type person for the most part. I can say without any trace of irony that I enjoy the low expectations people subconsciously have of you when you appear coarse and boorish. I enjoy being a surprise package. I’m aware of the finer things in life, I just happen to prefer the simpler ones.

However, what is a noisette of lamb? I had noisettes of lamb in Ireland on Saturday as part of my tasty meal and in so far as I can tell, they’re just ribs with a bit of sauce. I could be wrong in this but that’s what they looked like.

There was no jam roly-poly but that is the only disappointment. Everything was delicious.

I even got to taste most of it twice as I may have overindulged (to the max.) and puked up on a bus in front of all my work colleagues the following morning. My bright future has been assured.

There are many, many tales to be told but I’m not sure if I’m allowed to share many of the better ones so I’ll stick to my own personal experiences.

I was chased out of the ladies toilet by an irate Irish woman having been dragged into them by a drunken English woman (nothing like that I assure you.)

My bottom was felt 14 times. I do not mind this particularly but the ratio of men to women was poor, very poor.

Some woman attempted to suck my face off claiming, “I’ve never kissed an Englishman.” She still hasn’t but she’s certainly tried to eat one.

JJ did not accost me once (that I recall.)

Simon did.

I went to sleep in the bath.

Pictures paint a thousand words.

Courtesy of my mate Duncan.

One of the British national daily newspapers was asking readers “What
does it mean to be British?” Some of the answers were hilarious but this is one from a chap in Switzerland…

“Being British is about driving in a German car to an Irish pub for a Belgian beer, then traveling home, grabbing an Indian curry or a Turkish kebab on the way, to sit on Swedish furniture and watch American shows on a Japanese TV.

And the most British thing of all? Suspicion of anything foreign”.

The truth hurts yet tastes amusing.

I loathe ties. I loathe them with a passion. They serve no purpose; they’re restrictive and they fucking flap about in the wind being irritating and I ‘have’ to wear one at work. I don’t know why I have to wear a tie, but I do. I agree that they do look smart when accompanied by a suit but I’ve no need to look smart, I never leave the office or meet anyone important. I don’t think they’d really care about my tie anyway. The BBC says some other chaps agree with me. They say they’re useless too.

There should be a revolution.

I want a cravat.

See what I’m doing with the title there? I’m making light of a serious issue. This is called being self-deprecating. Along with a stiff upper lip and a flair for understatement this is one of the ways you can tell I’m British. Admiral Beatty was British too. Having watched two of his battle-cruisers explode and disintegrate under German fire at the Battle of Jutland, he made the comment: “There seems to be something wrong with our bloody ships today…”

I feel this is why we sometimes confuse peoples of other nations.

Anyway, I am not mental. Today marks an anniversary with regards to my oft lamented depression. It is significant in many ways. It is significant because it marks the start of my getting better. Which, by the way, I am (can I get a whoop whoop?) Mainly though it is significant because it marks the fact that I am still here despite my previous idiocy and fondness for sharp things (my wit excepted. Ho, ho, ho.)

This makes the world a better place by 0.0000539%.

I do not apologise for any suffering my continued existence may have caused. You love it, you know you do.

Though, I am sorry about that incident with the Jehovah’s Witnesses. I did not mean to…

Actually, yes I did. 8:30 on a Sunday morning for fuck’s sake. I was hung over and irate at being woken by bloody god botherers. Frankly, a can of silly string was the least they deserved.

Bastards.