Saturday, October 27, 2007

Rant and Liverpool

“All natural ingredients” boasts the advertisements, this confuses me, since when has that been such a good thing? Do you know what’s natural? Piss, piss is about as natural as its gets but I wouldn’t want it in my chocolate bar. Earwax, goats’ spunk, cholera and earthquakes, all so natural you’ve got to wonder if god hates us. Washing machines, antibiotics, the Internet and vodka, none of these things occur unaided in the wild. Fuck natural. And fuck those stupid enough to think that natural means the same thing as healthy; they deserve piss in their food.

O.k. rant over, god knows where the vitriol came from I’m quite content. I have been reclining in a comfy chair reading in the creases of a back pub, comfortably hot next to a three bar heater. Only a couple of minutes ago I realised two things in succession; one, that the reassuring rattling feeling in my chest and bubbling over the bottom of my throat has been purring, an actual animal purring. And two, I haven’t spoken to a soul in four hours. Just a background ghost of a trendy pub.

I have to apologise about my absence, I’ve been in Liverpool visiting GF’s sister, I have to say I was treated so well I’m thinking of asking to be adopted

While I was there I nearly bought a house, well that’s not strictly true, my girlfriend nearly bought a house. Actually that’s only sort of true; my girlfriend nearly bought a house ON BEHALF of her sister at a house auction. Sorry about the string of exaggeration but a house auction isn’t that exciting. It mainly consists of sitting in a sports hall for five long hours listening to a man saying numbers while picture of near identical houses change on the large screen while you try not to fidget too much in fear of walking away legally bound to derelict semi-detached in Toxeth. But our time was more than adequately paid for with what early Beano comics would describe as a “slap up feed” unlike the comic counterpart it didn’t consist of a big pile of mash with sausages sticking out of it while a smiling cats looks on licking his lips, it was an amazing Mexican/Cajun restaurant near Penny lane (yes THE Penny Lanes, from the song).

But we deserved it, if only for surviving the perilous journey, I was worried as soon as the taxi driver talked to us in an accent so scouse it sounded like a baby’s gurgle, and with a spectacular view of the pint glass scars on the back of his head he pulled off at, what the geek in my, recognises as Warp speed. He flicked on the radio to cover the call he took on his mobile and the soothing sound of Bob Marley filled the cab, but its hard to believe that “everything is going to be alright” when your brute of a driver is swerving around at 70 mile an hour spitting “tell him I’m gonna smash his fucking head in” at his phone.

Of course like most scousers I have met, he ultimately proved to be utterly charming explaining that normally he drives quite sedately or “like Miss Daisy” as he put it, but his “Merc” had his “bird” and no one could trace the current “piece of shit” back to him. I really shouldn’t patronise really, with my accent and fairly cavalier approach to the rules and syntax of spoken English.

Mr Porkpie

As well as good company and really good food I formed a bond with “Mr Porkpie” a cat so named because of his predilection for sitting on people’s heads, and who thought it his duty to sleep between the faces of the house guests, occasionally meowing at them for good measure.

Now playing: Prince - Sexy MF
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