Back To The Hood Of Things

I’ll make this speedy as I’m moving things today. Not that I don’t usually move something everyday, and I wouldn’t want you to think I was merely boasting to those who can’t move anything. No, I’m moving stuff from my old flat into my parent’s house, as yesterday I took residency in the bedroom I used to live in before university (and for a little bit after uni too). It is both oddly comforting and at the same time, a little like I may be stuck in some sort of time warp. Admittedly while much of my teenage stuff has gone from the room, it will be returning in there today as I took most of it with me, due to an inability to grow up. The returning teenage stuff will join my GCSE paintings, my lightsabers and, rather oddly, a space tube sound machine, to ensure I really feel like I’m 17 again. Only without the youthful looks, a few (by few I mean several) extra pounds (and by pounds, I don’t mean money) and the inability to hear garage music nowadays without getting a sinking feeling that my ears are being violated. Some of you right now are clearly thinking ‘wait wait wait, what on Earth is a space tube sound machine?’ You are right to ask such questions. It is a stupidly cheap piece of plastic that when waved around makes sounds like space. ‘Sounds like space?’ Yes inquisitive ones. Despite the fact that in space no one can hear you scream, or in fact do anything, it turns out its not to do with the vacuum of nothingness which prevents sound from travelling. No, apparently its all to do with all the other ‘space’ noise that’s going on. Everytime I wave the space machine sound tube lots of people around me panic about possible lack of oxygen and NASA go all crazy. FACT. It is a powerful tool not to be used by the careless. Sadly though, I have it.

So needless to say its weird being back. Not necessarily in a bad way. There are some definite plus points to being here, such as the food, getting my washing done and asking my parents to pick me up from parties if want to be back before midnight. Ok, not the last one. Or the middle one. So I am coping with all of this by gigging loads and last night was the sort of fun gig that can propel me through the week. There was a drunk lady from Iceland who didn’t understand the concept of comedy and therefore heckled from the start. I, in a childish racist way, blamed her for everything Iceland has done recently and eventually she left. Not immediately. First she came to chat to me at the bar. Despite new singledom and the fact she was quite attractive, there is nothing more repulsive than a heckling moron. She drunkenly told me how to pronounce her surname and how she didn’t like women that did comedy and in charming retort I politely told her she was an idiot. Then she left. High fives all round. Except to her. And her friend who was also a twat. Then after that, the gig was just much fun to the extent where I even did the electric boogaloo. If I had it my way, all gigs would have an electric boogaloo. Infact, everything ever would involve an electric boogaloo. Sure it’d make things like pouring drinks a lot harder, or perhaps waitering, but think about how cool you’d be if you did it and didn’t break things? Then again, maybe its impossible not to. Maybe that’s why its called breakdancing.

Must go do moving things. Maybe while electric boogalooing. Or more likely, not. I like my stuff. I don’t want to break it.

Oh and on a boring admin note about hella cool non-boring things – there are still some tickets left for Fat Tuesday tomorrow with the excellent magic man Pete Firman. Should you want some of them tix, then go here and buy them now. It will be very good: