Back from Oxford, again, with the Jones in tow. What will go down? Who can say? WHO CAN SAY DAMMIT okay i’m really tired
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To be honest, I only really signed up so that I could follow Stephen Fry around, so as far as I’m concerned it’s mainly a spectator sport. A creepy, unsettling spectator sport in which there are no players, only other spectators, all watching each other. BUT WITH WHAT ARE EFFECTIVELY TELEGRAMS. GOOD.
I plan to keep updating in haiku for as long as I can be arsed. Click here for the fO twitter page.
We pulled out of the dreaming spires, then, to ‘Everybody Hurts’, which swiftly became ‘That Song By The Proclaimers’ on the ring road. The volume was far too loud for even iPods to be of use, so I eventually decided to just drink it all in. How glad I am that I did! By Banbury we’d had Cher and Oasis and more I couldn’t name besides, and as Robbie Williams got ‘Angels’ out I pulled out moleskine and came across a self-quotation in there which I’d forgotten about, and did a massive love for the Banbury, the sun, the countryside, and the situation. Cracked up massively, attracting negative attention from my six co-riders, but racked up yet another indelible Oxford return memory, so it was worth it. Here’s to good times.
If I get remembered for just one…
After all, it is an abbr. of “underpants”, so it’s difficult to argue that the yanks are wrong on purely ethical grounds. More importantly, IMAGINE HOW MUCH COOLER LIFE WOULD BE…
Person A: I’m just popping into the pub, I think I left my ‘pants in there.
Person B: You saucy beast. I’ll stay here with my copy of Mark Haddon’s A Spot Of Bother, which is a bit ‘pants.