The mexican and the love song

It's been a few days since the massive two and a three and since I've consumed a bottle of tequila with small norweigan in the form of frozen margaritas. And tonight after slaving over a warm to hottish stove and subsequently stuffing my face with enchiladas I thought I'd settle down and tell the tale of a few nights ago. I'll keep it short because I want to watch the wire.

So anyway I found myself in Leeds, an event which must have happened about 40 times before but alas I've never counted the amount of times I've been to Leeds. However this time was rather special as it meant I would be in attendance to a rather special band, one I hold most dearly, I mutter here about future of the left. On arrival after a day of making sure the customers of Halifax got their fix of online banking needs I was ready to unwind and dance tipsily like a tit in front of many who would never see my face again. Fine by me.



So there I was with my three karass, Mr Bray, Sir Barnstormer, and Miss Whiteley. After a burger king of goodness we shuffled to a place reknown for it's trilby hat wearing punters, also known as the Cockpit. But alas it was sold out.

I'm not one for finding back doors and solid snaking myself into places but at that point I would have done a hell of a lot to get into that next room where the gig was taking place. The other three had already ownership of three tickets, and unfortunately for this lummocks he was without. I asked at the bar, bordering on asking if they were willing to be bribed and they said they were virtuous people who cared about being shut down because of capacity reasons. I begged with the doormen, but they were the usual door men and immovable from their door protection, but in all my panicking I did not realise there was another way.

And that other way is called Jack Egglestone.



Jack Egglestone is the drummer for future of the left, I spotted his near the door and quickly attempted to seize his attention. I explained my case to him and explained that I'm an avid fan and stalk their forums too much, and god damn it he said I could go on the guest list. It was mainly good luck, someone else had dropped out and so there was a space, so I had entry, so long as I could perform a quick name change to Mike. After that I approached a very confused doorman who had to simply assume that until that point I'd forgotten my name was on the guestlist. And once inside Future of the Left were good. They were so good. And in a drunken state I must have thanked Sir Egglestone fifty times. And quite rightly so, the man's a legend.

It was my first time seeing the band Kong, and they too were very very very good. And after sleeping on a floor with a bag for a pillow I headed jollily back to manchester with Ronnie the Rhino. All true.

And now I will watch the Wire, ring the landlord and dring margaritas

And this will be very very very very good tu.

Keep on truckin'

Dougal XxxxxX

REPENT!

Good evening .

Due to forseen circumstances I cannot write too much. It has been a long day and I feel the need to sprawl out on the sofa and convince myself that omelettes and scotch will make tomorrow any different. However I am living a lie. Tell it to the jury.

So I am alone in sexy flat as young norwegian has gone shopping in the huge mass that is commonly called 'the trafford centre' but is more commonly known by people from Yorkshire as 'Meadowhall Manchester'. So in the mean time I am left to defend for myself for the time being and dwell and the day past. My new job concerns 'actioning new' and I am in a department in an office building with teams with elaborate names, ours is something to do with smoke and mirrors. It's all more exciting sounding then it actually is, and all in all the job consists of pressing enter a lot and telling students that they have terrible terrible credit ratings.

We all have terrible terrible credit ratings though. Credit is the biggest farce since Rice Crispies being advertised as exciting.

I have been calling a few unemployed people this week asking how they are getting their money, it's quite interesting really because they want the accounts so they act really serious like they're speaking to someone who knows what he's doing. And all these letters have my name on them, I've never wrote these letter, I do not know what they say. I assume that's why they call it smoke and mirrors though, it's all a show, you expect an elaborate bank office where people in suits have machines that pack letters for them, but no, in reality you have me. God help you.

So this week I have mainly been bitching about Magic Buses for the hundreth time, it's just three times so far have they shut the doors and driven away when I ran to it. So fuck it, next time I see a magic bus I'll bottle the twat. If that even works.

Here is a picture of a house in Hull



Good day sir. And remember this; A banker is a fellow who lends you his umbrella when the sun is shining, but wants it back the minute it begins to rain.

And now I shall go before I rip off Mark Twain some more.

Dougal XxxxxX

'...and a happy new year'

Just keep this short due to Bond films being on television and lack of effort.

Two thousand and ten, or twenty ten, or two nought one nought. Either way it's still another year on the list, and one very close to what the mayons called the end of the world or possibly their calander maker forgot to keep going after 2012. It's still not a good film.

So anyway I have been employed by the old bank to do something with other peoples money, all for the generous amount of minimum wages. Still I've spent the last month doing something else for banks, but mainly the job was writing numbers of pieces of paper and laughing at passport photos. But what can you do? But this time the job comes with perks, yes, this time I get to use a phone. A phone I tell you! And training is given for once! Perks all around, with plenty of banter.

So what a year it has been, with many movements and masses of travellings to hither and dither. I've always had the question put to me, where do I see myself in a year? Well a year ago I didn't think I'd be living in Manchester, by this logic I have no idea where I could be. Russia perhaps. Space? Who knows. But regardless, I'm glad I'm not in Goole. Or in a mouldy Hull house.

More later, when I can be bothered.


Hitler duck? What did you expect from Disney.


Love Dougal X