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So after a two month break, in which time I have started a job answering phone calls from disgruntled internet customers who tend to call me a prick because their new jeans didn't fit, or cry down the line at me moaning that their Christmas was ruined because there was a rip in the pants they had bought for the uncle they hadn't spoken to all year, or threaten to commit suicide because their parcel turned up 15 mins later than expected, I am back on BlogSpot, filling you in on what I've been up to. And basically that is............... fuck all. So lets begin.
I can't remember when I did it but I decided to get a perm. So I drove down to Morrisons in my Nan's Ford Fiesta, bought a £5.49 kit and asked the Mrs to get working on it. It was delightful. Mates laughed at me in the pub, Old timers gave me strange looks down Leyton Orient and I even got called a cheap Justin Timberlake, or Bill from Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure, or Bogus Journey; whatever that film was called.
The Mrs even started comparing me to O'Brien, that bitch Maid from the 'Downton Abbey' series on ITV. Needless to say, it didn't last long.
I remember a couple of years ago, days used to consist of waking up in some random city on the other side of the world, packing up my rucksack, popping into some knock off Irish Pub in say, Ho Chi Minh City, visiting a few temples then jumping onto some rickety old bus to a small village just past the border in some exotic land. Now I spend my life putting wax on my finger and nose and burning it so that it looks as though I'm on fire...... or going to bed at 9pm cos I have to be up for work at 6am to listen to stupid people moan about stupid things.
At least Christmas was just around the corner! And what a lovely Christmas it was. Here, still with permed hair, I dressed up as some sort of tree and hobbled to Matt and Joey's festive party. With two beers in hand, and balls hanging from all orifices I proceeded to dance, (which didn't go down well with my fucked up leg) get most of my mates naked and generally make a messy pest of myself. A true stain on London.
I had some sort of moment as I was going for a piss one night, a moment of extreme darkness and self loathing. The hair had to go, I think the straw that broke the camel's back was Stevey Ward calling me Ray Parlour. It was about time I didn't look like that gyppo c**t. So I shaved it all off. Brutal. I hadn't had a shaved head since the Chavvy days of the late nineties/early naughties. When I bowled around Chingford in Evisu jeans and sparkly ear-rings. It was time to go back to my roots.
My head is a lot colder than it used to be. I have given myself a goal, a goal that I think I can achieve. I'm gonna grow my beard and keep my hair at a number 1. I want to look like one of those mugs who posts videos of themselves on YouTube telling other mugs to kill the infidels and kick off a Holy War. I might even start wearing a burkha to work.
New Year's Eve was somewhat of a love in down Bethnal Green Working Man's Club. We drank cherry Lambrini served by a fat tranny, listened to an 83 year old crooner belt out the Frank Sinatra hits and generally had sporadic threesomes. It was a great night, with great people.
Once again, against the will of my many doctors, I danced a little bit too much and felt the pain in the morning.... one day my leg will just snap off, but at least the ConDems might help me out with some benefits if I've only got one leg. Rant over......
It's been a whirlwind of a couple of months busy doing nothing. But I'm back and the StyleCouncil blog is back. So get your mother fucking reading glasses back on.
The tale of Billy Byron will also be back very soon, so stay on the edge of those seats.
Spare change guv'nor?
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