Went down the hill,
The other day
My soul got happy
And stayed all day ..
The other day
My soul got happy
And stayed all day ..
The 'D' key on my laptop is absolutely buggered. I don't quite know how it got to this stage. After several failed attempts at reconnecting the key itself and glueing the little nipple thing that sits underneath it, I'm now having to shift the nipple about as and when I need to type. If I try and type normally and miss the nipple by a millimetre or so, it pings out of it's little socket and I have to go and hunt for it and spend 5 minutes putting it back where it used to be. It makes essays and gaming oh so stressful. Please forgive any typos that come about as a result of the lack of 'd'.
BUT - this entr
y is not to be confined to the subject of problems with my nipples. After hunting around for subject matter, my housemate, mentioned in the previous blog, came out with a suggestion that can only hint at his overwhelming modesty: "Write about me. And don't hold back." So here we go. An ode to Guy.The snap of a cold beer can heralds your approach,
With all the conviction of a martyr about to face the lions
You sip from your can,
Rub a hand through a ginger beard and push back your big gay fringe.
***********
With a faint tugging of wires and the click of plastic,
the PS3 controller is removed,
removed from the ragtag pile of god only knows what that litters your floor.
If I had but a hosepipe and bleach I would attempt to intervene.
***********
Amid an Aladdins cave of dirty utensils, plates and empty cans,
You move to the bed, pinnacle of Guy-gaming.
A king of a shit-tip, holding only the tools of your trade,
Sat astride a throne of spunky bedsheets.
***********
And lo! The game has begun! The glazed look that you so often wear, like that of a lost dog, is replaced in an instant with a fevered expression! Thumbs flying over the controls, you concentrate. The promise of unlimited beer could not break this frenzied, beer fuelled deliberation.
***********
But it is not enough! The game prevails over your fervent skill, and your voice hits an octave usually reserved for whales!
Men, women and children dive for cover as the controller flies overhead and the feral howl continues! The people of Haiti run for cover for fear of aftershock.
***********
Amid a profound sense of calm in the wake of a mass panic, you pause.
A moments thought, in which the ginger beard is again slowly, reservedly caressed, calms you. And slowly, reservedly,
you knock upon the door of a nearby co-inhabitant.
(what else is there to do in such a situation?)
Slowly, reservedly, you regain your lost-dog composure, and ask ..
"Shall we go to Sainsbury's?"
***********
"What's an Ode?"
With all the conviction of a martyr about to face the lions
You sip from your can,
Rub a hand through a ginger beard and push back your big gay fringe.
***********
With a faint tugging of wires and the click of plastic,
the PS3 controller is removed,
removed from the ragtag pile of god only knows what that litters your floor.
If I had but a hosepipe and bleach I would attempt to intervene.
***********
Amid an Aladdins cave of dirty utensils, plates and empty cans,
You move to the bed, pinnacle of Guy-gaming.
A king of a shit-tip, holding only the tools of your trade,
Sat astride a throne of spunky bedsheets.
***********
And lo! The game has begun! The glazed look that you so often wear, like that of a lost dog, is replaced in an instant with a fevered expression! Thumbs flying over the controls, you concentrate. The promise of unlimited beer could not break this frenzied, beer fuelled deliberation.
***********
But it is not enough! The game prevails over your fervent skill, and your voice hits an octave usually reserved for whales!
Men, women and children dive for cover as the controller flies overhead and the feral howl continues! The people of Haiti run for cover for fear of aftershock.
***********
Amid a profound sense of calm in the wake of a mass panic, you pause.
A moments thought, in which the ginger beard is again slowly, reservedly caressed, calms you. And slowly, reservedly,
you knock upon the door of a nearby co-inhabitant.
(what else is there to do in such a situation?)
Slowly, reservedly, you regain your lost-dog composure, and ask ..
"Shall we go to Sainsbury's?"
***********
"What's an Ode?"I don't write a lot of poetry. Hopefully my grasp of the English language has remained sufficient as to give you a small snapshot into the daily life of a basement in Headingley.
