Attack of the undergrads….I lose my dignity….”He’s the folk version of a Rapper”…This is what “Next friday, the thrilling conclusion” means!…I lowered my pants and my standards for you…Strange rumblings in their tummies…”OMFG, I’m so drunk and facebooking this!”…We all have addictions…Beginnings and endings…The Vicious Vicissitudes of a Vixen Vole with a tendency to get lost during alliteration…I married a Red House Painters song and all I got was a t-shirt…State of Decay is a good story, but the acting is horrible…Could it be the end of something beautiful?…
So there were we, surrounded by Urdrunkgraduates claiming for stolen Stellas, packs of menthol Kools and my self-regenerating chicken kebab from the Broomhill Friery.
“Wow, for such a life-or-death situation, it feels like we’ve been standing here for a big while” remarked Katja.
“Now it’s not the time for metahumour, my dear friend in distress!”
They kept surrounding us, with bad intentions and even worse breath. Funny, moments like this I see my life flash before me and all I see are drunken idiots like this, bad breaths and a strange rash in my elbow. Figures, life never lets you forget that once you land in the gutter, you’ll stay there like a pale-coloured leave in the autumn.
And stuff.
“I think you are getting a ‘T for trying’, mister”.
“Shouldn’t I get an ‘E for effort’, Katja?”
“Be thankful I won’t live to post this as ‘Total Fail!’, you indie-rock lover”.
The word indie rock made the Urdunknsmellygraduates become even more agitated. Some of them brandished Tesco-quality pitchforks, Williamson’s overpriced hoes (for your student lynching necessities!) and “buy two for 3.50″ Somerfield’s torches.
We are done for. And I never had a polish beer with a white cap. Oh well, if we are going to die, I might as well confess something: Coldplay’s Clocks makes me happy.
“What did you just say?”
“I just confessed to like a Coldplay song” I said a little louder and the Ucanhasbeergraduates stopped for a moment.
“Say it, man!”
“But, Katja, my honour!”
“Do you wanna get facebooked in a group called ‘We pwned dis looosers, lolz!!!11!1!1′? SAY IT!”
Shit. There goes my rep.
“I LOVE CHRIS MARTIN!”
As I yelled such profane words that shall haunt me ’til my self-inflicted death, the Urukgraduates stopped dead in their tracks
Antidote to stop people dead on their tracks. For best results, use in well ventilated areas.
They looked at each other. I now yelled:
“‘Clocks’ is the shizzznits and ‘Viva la Vida’ is an uplifting anthem to the beauty of life!”
“Oh, sure, it’s a nice song!” said some dude with a traffic cone in his head.
“Quite uplifting!”
“Rather nice!”
“Oh, the bird I’m shagging loves it!”
“Yes, I loves it!”
“And they promote fairtrade, they are nice people!”
We took the moments of distraction provided by that horribly written yet rather amusing deus ex machina and tried to make our way out of St. Stefan’s. We were halfway down the staircase when Katja said:
“Wait, we need my butter!”
“Why?”
“It’s a rather nice brand!”
“How? Does it make bread less creaky?”
“No, it’s just really nice!”
“It’s just butter, let’s leave this mindless sons of a hooligan and a lovelorn hamster behind!”
“But, it’s utterly butterly!”
Then she pulled that face girls pull when they want something. Y’know, eyelashes batting fast, eyes big as an Amsterdam café customer, hands in an old fashioned emotional blackmail pose. The whole bap, and I fell for it like I fall for a Bellybuster roasted pork/stuffing/apple sauce bap.
“OK, hang about, try to not go ‘damsel in distress on me’ and I’ll recover your semi-fermented lactose based thingie!”
So I made my way to her room, and there, over the sink and far away on the hills, laid the yellow tub of Utterly Butterly. Don’t believe me? See it for yourselves, you goddamned commies!
A spread worth getting your arse kicked.
I took the tub out and made my way back to the stairs when I noticed that the Urdrunkgraduates where making their way to their various dens. I thought for a moment that we were going to get outta here scotch free… but no! They were only going into their rooms to get more drinks and a tenner for chips with vinegar.
A few of them started throwing little chip shop forks at me, Indiana Jones-style. I dodged most of them, getting a few pricks on my arm, but nothing to write the NHS about. When I arrived at the stairs… dun dun DUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUN!!!
Well, actually, nothing, it was just Katja, twiddling her thumbs.
“What took ya so long?”
“Well…”
“And why do you have chip shop forks stuck in your back, acupunture-like?”
“I’m cleaning my chakras, girl!”
We decided to leave but another wave of screaming, hormone driven idiots was climbing up the stairs. I nodded Katja towards the roof, as I heard that our friendly fire shootin’ helicopter was nearby. I took out my fave conker (a 29ner) and started to clear my way while Katja sang the charlie song from the Mighty Boosh.
That show fuckin’ rocks.
Anyhoo, I swathed my way through the unwashed and alcoholic masses. Then I stopped, changed the tape on the stereo and noticed that no one misses tape. Yeah, everyone says vinyl is warm and shit like that, but where’s the love for TAPE?!!?
Jimi Hendrix started to rock out the place with “All along the watchtower” (the only version, if you ask me) as we made our way to the roofs, clearing a path through the flotsam and jetsam of underachieving students.
Then, as we were nearly inside the helicopter, the Queen of Urukgraduates roared at a distance to us, from her throne of disposable despair. With eyes that screamed “muuuuuurder” and a air-powered rifle, she started to shoot in our general direction. One shot grazed the Utterly Butterly tub and Katja nearly fell to her death to catch it up. The heli couldn’t wait for us any longer, so I went David on Queen Goliath, throwing my 29er on her direction and knocking her out of her senses.
I’ll probably get sued.
There most be some way out of here, said the joker to the thief.
The helicopter ride was calm, cool and tranquil. Too much, for my liking, so I made a few warning shots at the distance to some houses watching the Chelsea vs Liverpool match. How I hate football!!!! I loathe that major suckitude “sport” with such a passion that if I had the same passion for a person, I would marry said person, divorce and go on a drinking binge.
Or summat.
So I dropped her at Noisy’s safehouse near some poorly lit street. It’s a nice house where the kitchen is kinda falling apart and the front garden looks like Dresden (joke stolen from Black Books), but I’m sure she’ll manage to survive, I just hope her lactose addiction won’t get the best outta her.
It’s an easy joke, so I’ll skip it
“So, thanks for heeding for my help, mister!”
“No probs, girl, you’ll fit fine with the people here”.
“Ehrm, do I need to pay something?”
“I can’t accept any payment. THERE IS NO PAYMENT FOR AWESOMENESS!”
Noisy Bishop came out of the house (and someday out of the closet, hopefully) and helped her out with her stuff. I took the chopper ride back to The Den, for a nice cuppa fairtrade coffee with cadbury conflict chocolate. Hey, I only do it because I’m ironic.
Yes, it’s a personalised mug
A month or so after, I went and visited Katja, just to see how she was adapting to life in the House O’Scary Basements (see pics after the end). She was doing fine and she was down to only six quarts of milk per day.
Her daily consumption of milk
We had a small chat over milk and stroopwafels, talking about adventures past. I said my goodbyes to everyone in the house and went back to The Den. When I went inside, I noticed something in my table.
Strange payment or link to a next adventure? YOU DECIDE!
A pair of conkers and a piece of white tack. I walked to the window and sighed while the rain kept pounding the lonely streets near me.
PS: I know that Phnom Penh and Saigon are a little apart from each other (i.e. different countries) but if you are reading this blog to learn geography, then you might as well be walking to the sun:
And now… pictures of Noisy’s House O’Bad Electricity (TM)
“It looks like Dresden back there!”
Dish washing fail
Their own dungeon!
Rosemary’s baby…
Victorian Kennels
Could it be….salvation?
Oh noes!!!!
