My landlord rang me the other and said she was going to be putting in a washing machine for me. This was good news, because last week I took my washing from the laundry room only to find a bra and 3 ladies socks in it. Naturally, I put the socks back. I was pretty happy with all of this, as I am tiring of fighting off old women in the corridors as we rush to be first to the machine. Now, don’t get me wrong. I love to elbow a frail granny to the floor as much as the next man, but I’m a sucker for those puppy dog eyes, and being the gentleman I can sometimes be, I courteously allow them ahead of me. Usually, this is instantly regretted as I see that she is washing a set of curtains or tablecloths, whilst I’m pretty much down to my last pair of underpants.
Now, with Thursday being the first day of the weekend (and also the last one of the previous) I don’t like my valuable drinking/throwing up time to be wasted. However, when my landlord arrived at my door, stating that they had ‘forgotten’ the washing machine. I was baffled as well as frustrated. How could someone ‘forget’ a washing machine?
When she left, I sat down to eat some crisps. I do that sometimes. When I broke up with an ex (although she wasn’t an ex before I broke up with her) I sat and ate a 12 pack of Meanies in my room and listened to 13 wonderful loves songs from A House, over and over. I’d replaced the words with 12 wonderful packets of Meanies. I was pretty low back then. But anyway, in a wicked twist, as I sat there feeling the dramatic non-presence of a washing machine, a crispy gift from heaven arrived into my lap. The most perfectly formed love heart shaped crisp, literally floated from my bag of tayto like feathers from Cupids bag of tricks. Instantly, I knew it was a sign and I quickly rallied my wingmen for what I described as a night of ‘romantic merriment’.
To cut a long story short, we went to Fallon’s in the Coombe for some bizarre reason. Now, unless you like your ladies with beards and swinging a pickaxe, Fallons (a fine pub), is not love central. So, around midnight and suitably beered, I gave up on the night and the snacky love promise that had filled me with hope and headed for home. Obviously, not being an animal, I stopped by Chicken Hut and ordered a number 7. I was satisfied that despite being cruelly led by fate, I could still nosh down on some fried Chicken badness. Anyway, as I was nibbling on my chicken, I caught a glimpse of someone through a ground floor curtain in one of the apartments on Clabnbrassil st. She was a lady. She also appeared to be dressed in a leather dominatrix outfit. She also caught me looking at her.
I ran home and ate the crisp.
3 comments:
easy does it, Disgrace.
Clearly you missed out, you could have had the complete night of beer, greasy chicken and a stiletto through your foreskin.
Meanies RULE!
'ate the crisp'? is that what they're calling it these days?
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