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Dreadful Nonsense

"I've read your blog. it's really funny. you should write a column." - Jon Ronson

Many, many things to do today. I should be writing my stinking essay, now beginning to annoy everyone who knows me because I keep talking about how I should be writing my stinking essay but never actually writing it. I need to type out some completely illegible minutes from a meeting my Dad needs typed out. I need to email some people who I very much owe emails to, and I need to lie down and get some sleep that isn't induced by alcohol or sleeping tablets or both. But I'm not doing any of the above. I'm listening to Ben & Jason play for the 186th time in a row, getting slightly depressed and blogging instead. It's a curse, a terror, a tragedy, a huge waste of time and energy. But Oprah says it's okay to be me today.

It's already 3.20pm! I'm screwed!

Last night we were out once again with the joy that is the JC, dapper man about town. Him and his t-shirts and his comic books and his special way of saying things, and all the smoke. We were standing outside the comedy club, waiting to go upstairs and some of my companions were using the time to have cigarettes. I wasn't. I was standing slightly down wind from them, looking smug and aloof and also at my shoes because I was tired and felt sick and was jealous that they were smoking and that I wasn't and I was merely instead passive smoking and trying to work out a way to take a drag off a fag without anyone noticing. While I was thinking through all these things, and many others beside because my internal dialogue is loud, insistent, and more interesting than you will ever know, a little Eastern European man come up to us with a bucket full of roses and kept telling us they were only €1 each.

We looked about us, we looked at each other, we examined our own and each other's shoes, we muttered things about no thanks and that's okay and we basically did all the things you do in polite society when trying to get rid of someone without telling them to bugger off. JC, on the other hand, being both a worldtraveler and a man of the world, instead managed to somehow talk the rose seller (who - implied strongly by his job title -traditionally SELLS the roses) into GIVING him a rose absolutely for free. It was a very beautiful moment. The rose seller looked confused but pleased, JC looked stunned and amazed at the Derren Brown powers of suggestion he didn't realise he possessed, we all were in floods of tears laughing at what had happened, and at that moment I didn't feel sick any more.

Mrs Bishop did the right thing and handed the lovely jolly rose seller €1 for bringing such a happy moment to our lives, but the rose seller - at this point totally mesmerised by the Paul Daniels style confidence trick JC had just pulled out of his dapper sleeve - instead just handed her another rose. We protested, we laughed some more, we eventually accepted the second rose momentarily, but then D hit on a wonderful idea and asked the rose seller to instead walk down the road and hand the second rose to a lady who was standing in white waiting to go into the comedy as well. This the little man did, a tired expression creeping across his still smiling face, almost as if the David Copperfield style JC magic was wearing off and the cloak was being lifted from his eyes. The lady in white took the second rose wordlessly and looked, her face totally void of any expression, down the street at us. We didn't wave.

Later in the night, me and Mrs Bishop kicked JC's arse at pool.

This entry was posted on 23 April 2004 at 3:26 pm. 0 comments

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