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Dreadful Nonsense

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

Swearing off the booze for a full month has opened up so many possibilities, in terms of how to spend evenings and weekends. I must confess that I didn’t truly recognise the extent of the time we spent in pubs, how routine it had become to have dinner and then jaunt off down to the local for a lovely relaxing evening of talking crap and drinking crap before falling homeward.

Our January weekends have involved excursions to the great parks and galleries of London’s fair city, as these attractions have the outstanding appeal of being absolutely free and kind on a pocket still suffering from Christmas and house moves and Ikea splurges. We’ve also wandered around a market or three, looked up and down some side street shops and generally had a window of a time staring at things we can’t quite afford. However, the evenings are the most trying times, and weekend evenings doubly so.

Last weekend, we made the mistake of switching our usual Sunday evening cinema excursion to a Saturday night instead, in order to entertain ourselves on the one day of the week most guaranteed to broadcast absolutely nothing of interest on the five television channels that we can pick up. The pickings on terrestrial television can’t be described as “slim”, since that is being too generous to the amount of absolute dross being shown these days. I had no idea, having been spoilt by cable up until now.

Apparently most of Islington felt the same way as us, as the queue for the cinema snaked out the door and around the corner, along with the queue for the Waggamamas across the street. So much for our well laid plans. Fortunately, everyone seemed to be trying to get tickets for Bare-Arse Cowboys, and we were able to get tickets for the seemingly less popular Jarhead instead. The things you discover when you veer out of your usual routine.

We’ve seen a lot of cinema this month, and I think the pick of the bunch so far has to be Cock & Bull Story, simply for the reaction that the scene in which Steve Coogan drops a hot chestnut down his trousers caused in He Who Only… I have never seen anyone lose their reason and faculties quite as much or as repeatedly as He Who Only… did, as Coogan leapt about, fell over and begged for relief as he struggled to remove the roasting chestnut from his man’s personal area. He was, in fact, still laughing about it over four hours later, as we lay in bed trying to sleep.

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