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

I told her on Alderaan...

I'm having trouble with electric fields, and all I can get out of my turntable at the moment is a buzzing, so before I kick it into the future I shall listen to the Neon Neon CD I got till I've heard all the 12 songs about the life and doings of John DeLorean.


It's been a short and eventful festive season, filled with shocks and awe and many a present giving and taking. I recieved four wash bags, so I believe the giving part was mainly clouded by the hidden message that I should get a bath, although it could be interpreted as well that I spend too much time in the bathroom. I now own more moisturiser than could possibly be used in the space of my lifetime. At least my face isn't flaking off. For now. Tigermilk!
So yes, eventful, full of buying and selling, much like a stock market of christmas cheer, but with more drinking. Since I have reached my quota of drinking, I shall furthermore cut out on alcosauce till the next christmas. So the bottle of Jager and two bottles of single malt are going to have to wait for all the joys of consumption. I would state this tale mentioned here to be the worst experience;

Alas I was returning to the joys of Hull, and down the Clive Sullivan way I passengered, and towards the joys of the Hull christmas market I was anticipating. I'd been sliding to work every day and through seeing the massive Manchester district of a christmas market, wouldn't have minded some overpriced staring at sweets and mulled wine. However on arrival of Hull I couldn't help but think something was wrong, it felt quiet, bordering on empty, like an area where the apocalypse has been announced and a few stragglers have not been informed. I had to purchase a bathrobe for a small Norwegian from La Senza and had a heavy night at the usual haunts in the previous 12 hours ago. So in La Senza I felt like a pillock, and upon finding out I had no money on me, had to go run and borrow some off siblings. But I felt it was all in good humour, until it wasn't and became awkward. I still cannot get over how small it is now, Manchester suddenly feels like the norm, Hull now feels a thousand times smaller, and the 115 bus route now feels walkable.

What I'd do to be able to own the Adelphi. I'd kill to be a young Paul Jackson. But in a way I could imagine that being my own Hell.




I would post a painting of a little house down Ventnor street, but unfortunately I cannot find my camera lead. But if it's any condolence having kicked my turntable into working I can inform that Tigermilk is an amazing album and you should probably hit yourself in the teeth for not owning it.

I'll add it later :D I'll end on a proverb, you lucky twats.

To be happy for an hour, be drunk

To be happy for a year, fall in love

To be happy for life, take up gardening



FIN!

Love Dougal XxxxxxxxxxX

No idea

I've got to do a lot of things, but first I must explain I have no idea what the previous blog is about. I remember some odd things about last night, like singing Pato Banton and UB40s redition of "baby come back" and queuing to get in the Royal only to leave as soon as we got to the door.

Interesting.

So if I could have my perfect dinner party this is a list of people I would invite.

• Lugwig Wittgenstein- father of modern philosophy, autistic Austrian millionaire who stalked Bertrand Russell and lived around the corner from where I live now in Manchester.
  

• Kurt Vonnegut Jr- Sci-fi writer and all around liberal. Wanted to sue the tobacco industry because smoking hadn't killed him.

• Kim Deal- Pixies bassist and front of the breeders. It was between her and Frank Black, but she waved at me at Leeds Festival in 2004 so she makes the list.

• Beck- unsurprising as I spent a couple of years only listening to Beck, but I can imagine he'd weird it up.

Zooey Deschanel- Damn you Ben Gibbard, but to be fair he wrote the song "such great heights" and with this I cannot compete. And even if I tried I'd be beaten to death by a small Norwegian, so I'll just keep this dinner party hypothetical.



And...











...Fin

Love Dougal xxxXxxx

A drunken rant

Jager is warming, in the same way that you can heat your self in winter by toasting your self up by licking ice. But regardless i've attempted the first jager based labotomy so I can write a new blog.

And hell it worked.

So all you are shouting (all -3 of you) why haven't you updated this awful piece of your besetted internet. And my excuse is in multiple areas. And this may contain spelling mistakes, as I'm not using my small Norwegian associates laptop which runs a spell checker as she needs to work, and I'm a tad sloshed.

It happens to us all, particularly this point of the year.

So first obvious excuse is that I have a job doing things for a company which I cannot tell anything about for legal reasons. Hehe Cheeky legs. But I'm banking like a banker, one that doesn't have the drive of Gary Bray and I'm doing my best to not get sacked. I feel I might get taken on if I don't write too many blogs, of which the content the daily mail cannot find a story from. And lets faucet, 10% of the daily mail is about incompetant bankers, and 25% is about animals in gay waistcoasts and the rest is about foreigners doing this and that, and we really don't like them doing it.

My head is acutely spinning.

Tonight it took us about twenty minutes to realise we shouldn't go in a Goole club. The only time before I ended up dancing to a mirror and sticking out my tongue to stretch it, and this time we didn't get over the threshold. And that is a good word.

McNulty rocks and all that jazz.

I would post a picture, but I haven't been painting, or am near any camera to photograph anything. But I shall leave the image of Alistair Darling doing the Hustle

Brain shutting down now..... James Cameron...


...is shit...